Point of Dreams a-2

by Melissa Scott

He sighed softly, letting his eyes roam over the crowd. Not just senior points and the fellows mentioned in the summons, he saw, but a cluster of advocats resplendent in full scarlet robes and tall black caps, and he wondered what they were doing here. Probably to discuss prosecution of any points called, he decided, and wished he could afford a nap. The new play, based as it was on the so‑called verifiable edition of spring‑time rumor, was bidding fair to become a major headache for points and university alike–already, according to the summons, at least four printers had registered their intent to reprint just that edition of the Alphabet, and that meant that at least a dozen more were working on similar volumes without bothering to ask for license. Not to mention the flower merchants, who were happy to raise the price on every bulb or corm mentioned in play or book, and to force blooms out of season at equally exorbitant prices… Someone, probably a lot of someones, was bound to cry fraud, and the surintendant wanted to discuss their options in detail. Personally, Rathe was inclined to let the buyers settle it among themselves, but he knew that was mostly exhaustion speaking. He had not quite adjusted to having Eslingen in his rooms on what seemed to be a semipermanent basis–and, frankly, this wasn’t the way he would have chosen to acquire a new lover, not out of necessity and the sense that he owed the other man a place, since Eslingen had lost two positions because of him. But I do want him living with me, it’s just–He shook his head, not quite able to articulate his disappointment. I want him on my terms, not these. And that is damned foolish, and I’d do very well to get over that, stop mooning over romance like something out of a bad play.

  “So, Nico, how are you enjoying life at Dreams?”

  Rathe looked up in honest pleasure, recognizing the voice of his former chief at Point of Hopes. “It’s interesting, I’ll say that for it. How are things in Hopes?”

  Tersennes Monteia shrugged, her long horse‑face wry. “That ass Ranaczy managed to fall down a ladder at the Maiden. Probably collecting his fee.”

  Rathe choked at the image–Ranaczy had never been a favorite of his–and struggled for a suitable comment. “Not dead, I hope.”

  Monteia snorted. “Not that one. But he’ll be out of my hair for a while, at least. And everyone else’s. It’s just a pity he didn’t land on something more vulnerable than his head. I’ve moved Salineis up, and with luck I can make it permanent.”

  A familiar voice called her name–Guillen Claes, the chief at Fair’s Points–and she touched Rathe’s shoulder in apology, moving to answer. Left to himself, Rathe looked around for further distraction, and to his mild surprise spotted Istre b’Estorr ducking through the heavy doors. The magist wasn’t wearing university robes, and Rathe suspected the ghost‑tide was beginning to wear on him already. Accustomed to ghosts the necromancer might be, but the sheer numbers during the tide could overwhelm even the best of them, and the strain was showing in b’Estorr’s face. The dark grey robes would only accentuate his pallor, and the Chadroni was just vain enough to dislike the notion. Instead, he wore a dark red coat trimmed with embroidered wheat sheaves that matched his pale hair, and Rathe hid a smile, thinking that Eslingen would have snarled with envy. He lifted a hand, beckoning, and the other man moved to join him, his grim expression easing.

  “The sur’s in an ugly frame of mind,” Rathe said, “if he’s calling you lot in already.”

  b’Estorr glanced around. “And overreacting, surely.”

  “Fourie never does anything by halves,” Rathe answered. He glanced sideways at the Chadroni, realizing he hadn’t seen the man in weeks– not since I started seeing Philip–and winced inwardly at the dark circles under his eyes. “You all right?”

  b’Estorr nodded, his eyes closing briefly, and Rathe realized that, in this room and at this time, there had to be a clamorous presence of ghosts. Bad enough outside the ghost‑tide, the room was full of pointswomen and advocats, all of whom could be expected to have their own dead, but with the tide on the rise, there would be the timely dead to face, as well. He had felt his own Mud scurrying at his feet on the way into Dreams that morning. He was only vaguely aware of the presence of b’Estorr’s own ghosts, usually an almost tangible presence, today damped down almost to nothing by the pressure of so many others.

  “My students are, as usual, clamoring for me to cancel classes,” b’Estorr said. “As are a few of the other masters. As if closing the shutters and going to bed with your head under a pillow for a week will help. It doesn’t.”

  Rathe did his best to repress a grin–the thought of the elegant Chadroni cowering in his rooms was almost too good to bear. “It’ll be over soon,” he said. That was true enough; the lunar conjunctions were never long‑lived, and the ghost‑tide had only a few more days to run. Less than the current climate of foolishness, he thought, and b’Estorr nodded as though the other man had spoken aloud.

  “This madness won’t, though.” The necromancer’s voice was unwontedly grim.

  Rathe nodded in commiseration, just as the door at the far end of the room opened abruptly, admitting two of the Tour’s ushers, elegant in forest‑green livery. One held the doors open while his senior slammed his heavy staff on the floor, drawing all eyes. He struck again, unnecessarily, and Rathe’s eyes were drawn in spite of himself to the royal emblem that topped it. It was identical to the one that capped his own truncheon, his badge of office, and he ran his thumb over the worn metal. He was part of the royal household, in a sense, just as the ushers were.

  “Masters all,” the usher announced. “Rainart Fourie, Surintendant of Points.”

  Fourie swept in before the words were quite out of his mouth, lifting a hand in acknowledgment of courtesies already begun. He was dressed in his usual narrow black, unrelieved except for the flawless linen at neck and cuffs, and as usual he had forgone the wig that would look so foolish on his long and melancholy face. A clerk scuttled at his heels, tablets ready, and a young woman in a judicial gown followed him, eyes downcast, her hands folded in her sleeves. Behind her, another liveried usher held a brass orrery at the ready.

  “Masters all,” Fourie began, and the silence seemed to deepen as each one of them came to attention. “We’re faced with an unusual situation. A midwinter masque that promises to become a popular hit.”

  That broke the silence, a ripple of laughter running around the room, but Fourie continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Based on a work that seems to catch the popular imagination on a fairly regular basis. Combine the play with last year’s rumor of an authentic Alphabet, and we have the possibility for massive fraud and more in the marketplaces. That is why I want the university to consult with us on this, and possibly in particular the college of necromancy. There are, by what is admittedly a rough count of a fluid situation, thirty‑five licensed printers in the city. Licensed. There is an unofficial count of another forty or fifty unlicensed printers working at any one time. And all of them, my masters, will be printing copies of the Alphabet of Desire.”

  Rathe rolled his eyes to the painted ceiling, wondering why Fourie was telling them something they all already knew. A painted gargoyle peered back at him through a painted hole in the roof, its expression as disapproving as Fourie’s, and he dragged his attention back to the lecture.

  “They will be printing copies of the Alphabet because the people of this city will want, already want, to buy it, and this play will only feed that hunger.” Fourie’s long mouth drew down in a frown that rivaled the gargoyle’s. “Many will want it as a curiosity, because it’s the must‑have of this particular season, and their copies will gather dust and be sent for kindling in a twelve‑month. Some, however, will buy it because of what they believe it can do, the knowledge it can impart.”

  Rathe pulled himself up a little straighter at that. Of course, that was why Fourie wanted the university there, and the necromancers in particular. The Alphabet of Desire was just that, a book of formulae arranged in the order of the letters, formulae for flower arrangements designed to give the maker the desire
of her heart, from true love to lust, to money, to power, to death. There was no way to tell, to certify, that the arrangements in any given edition would work at all, or work the way they were supposed to, without trying each one, and it would take a university‑trained magist to make the assay without causing more harm, unless the necromancers could read the possibility of power the way they read the possibility of ghosts. But it was interesting to see that there were no university phytomancers present. He glanced sideways at b’Estorr, made a note to ask him about that.

  “The timing,” Fourie continued, “is unfortunate. May I remind you all that Her Majesty has promised to name her true successor after the turn of the year?”

  As if we hadn’t been hearing that for the last three years, Rathe thought, looking up at the gargoyle again. Although this time, it seemed to be true: with the Starchange approaching, the Starsmith moving from one sign to the next in its ponderously slow transit of its zodiac, the queen was finally running out of time to delay. The change of sign always signaled upheaval, or so the old text claimed; for the health of the kingdom, the queen would have to name her successor before that transit began.

  “I am not one to doubt the wisdom of the regents,” Fourie went on, and there was another ripple of suppressed laughter. The surintendant had a deserved reputation for quarreling with the regents, usually in defense of his own people. “But Her Majesty’s decision has brought many of the potential candidates to Astreiant at a time when the madness for the Alphabet has sprung back to life, and we cannot ignore the conjunction.” He paused, his eyes skimming over the audience. “On top of that, I’m concerned about keeping the peace in the marketplaces, especially those districts with large markets. There were some squabbles last spring over the corms–”

  “Squabbles,” a pointswoman standing in front of Rathe said, under her breath. She leaned close to a colleague, shoving up her faded sleeve to display a long white scar. “That’s what one of those ‘squabbles’ got me, a knife in the arm.”

  “–but I’m afraid those will be as nothing compared to what we’re likely to see now. We’re in an unfortunate sign right now.” Fourie paused, beckoned to the usher and the young woman in the judicial gown. “As you well know. The ghost‑tide keeps us busy enough, but we also have to contend with a figure that seems to enhance the inherent foolishness of people.”

  “He’s a loving soul,” b’Estorr murmured, and Rathe stifled a laugh.

  “Believes the best of people, Fourie does.”

  “And there’s your explanation for The Drowned Island,” the necromancer went on, closing his eyes as the younger astrologer made final, minute adjustments to the orrery.

  “A question, Surintendant.” The voice came from the front of the group, where the chief of Temple Point and the chancellor of the university sat side by side in matching chairs. That was a little daring of Fourie, Rathe thought. Under no other circumstances would even the most senior of the chiefs rank equal to the university’s head. It was Temple Point who had spoken, her voice even and cultured, and for an instant Rathe wished Trijn had been forced to attend. Only the chiefs were expected to speak at these gatherings. “Do we have any chance of calling a point on the factors, if there’s trouble, or are we left to deal with the petty dealers?”

  Fourie’s severe face relaxed into something like a smile. “The advocacy has been consulted on that, Chief Point. They hold that the factors are within their rights to take whatever the market will bear, and so the smaller dealers may–and will–do likewise.”

  “If they make claims outside the ordinary,” Temple Point went on, “may we call it fraud?”

  “If you think you and yours can make the point,” Fourie said, “by all means.”

  Rathe laughed at that, knowing the sound was rueful, heard the same note echoing in the room. It was unlikely any of them could get such a point upheld, given the nature of the corms and the nature of the book, but at least the surintendant had given a qualified sort of approval.

  “That does raise an interesting question, Surintendant.” This was the chancellor, her voice deep and smoky, vivid contrast to the grey robes and pale lace. “An arrangement that turned out to be harmless–would the points call that a fraud, if it did no harm when it was designed in fact to kill?”

  Fourie bowed slightly. “That, Madame Chancellor, would be a matter for the advocacy to decide. But the point could be called, I believe.”

  “Wonderful,” Rathe said, and didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until b’Estorr jogged his elbow. But the surintendant’s decision put all the burden on the points, on the individual pointswomen and ‑men, not on their chiefs–though to be fair, Rathe thought, he was probably right about the advocacy having the final say. And from the look of them, the row of women resplendent in scarlet and black, professionally inscrutable beneath their tall caps, they weren’t prepared to give an opinion until they had an actual case before them.

  There were more questions then, one from each of the chief points–restating Temple’s questions, mostly, Rathe thought, with another glance at the ceiling–and then from several of the university officers, before Fourie finally nodded to the usher.

  “I think that’s all that needs to be said on the matter. For my people: be aware. Make sure all the printers in your districts are aware, as quickly as possible. And I want peace kept in the markets, I don’t want trouble marring this masque.”

  “All rise,” the usher called, and Temple Point and the chancellor rose gracefully to their feet. The second usher swung the doors open with a flourish, and Fourie swept out, the two women following him in a rush of satin. Rathe stretched surreptitiously, watching the other chiefs and adjuncts clustering around the orrery, a few of the advocats peering over their shoulders. It was early yet, and they were glad of the excuse to linger, like schoolchildren on holiday. Unfortunately, he needed to be back at Dreams, to give Trijn her report as soon as possible, and he turned toward the door, suddenly aware that b’Estorr was at his heels. The Chadroni smiled.

  “Mind if I walk with you?”

  “Of course not,” Rathe answered, and felt lighter for the company.

  They left the Tour by the side door that opened onto Clockmakers’ Square, crossed the faded stones that had once sketched the face of a clock across the open marketplace. A lot of them were missing, or their colors had faded beyond recognition, but in the far corner a trio of laborers was working under the supervision of a clockmaker’s journeyman, pulling up stones to replace them with another. A cold day for it, Rathe thought, and drew his own coat more closely around his shoulders. The wind was strong, from the north, not the river, and the sky was the pale flat grey that meant snow was coming soon. An early winter meant a long one; it seemed the almanacs were in accord this year.

  “How’s Philip?” b’Estorr asked, and Rathe started.

  “He’s well–ah. I haven’t had a chance to tell you. He’s no longer with Caiazzo.” He could feel his face heating, hoped b’Estorr would take it for the wind, but the Chadroni was minding his steps on the uneven cobbles, and at least pretended not to notice.

  “That must be a relief for both of you,” he said. “Where has he fetched up this time?”

  “I think Hanse has done better by him than I did,” Rathe answered. He remembered all too well b’Estorr’s appalled reaction when he’d first found Eslingen the position with Caiazzo. “He’s got a place with the Masters of the Guild of Defense.”

  “Really?” b’Estorr looked impressed. “I may see him there some time, then; I exercise there. When I can.” He smiled. “So he’ll be involved with the masque as well.”

  “Yes,” Rathe said slowly, and b’Estorr shook his head.

  “Never mind. I should be surprised by this, but I’m not.” He grinned suddenly, the movement transforming his rather sober face. “In the midst of all this–folly–this feels like something else. Congratulations.”

  And in the midst of everything that was going on, he felt reassur
ed, trusting b’Estorr’s knowledge the way Eslingen trusted the better class of broadsheet astrologers. He matched the taller man’s stride with automatic ease, at once like and completely unlike the ease he felt with Eslingen. There were no demands here, no complex expectations on either side, just an unlikely friendship that had sprung full‑blown from the first moment he’d asked for a necromancer’s help to make a difficult point. And, speaking of that…

  “Do you think we’re likely to see an increase in ‘accidental’ deaths because of the Alphabet?” he asked.

  “Alphabets,” b’Estorr corrected, accepting the change of subject without surprise. “It’s hard to say. My own understanding is that the Alphabet is at once extremely precise and rather vague. You would have to read it carefully, and fully, to make anything in it work. I don’t know if it can–go off–like a badly charged gun. I do know that I doubt the ability of the general populace to read anything that carefully.”

  “Snob,” Rathe said, without heat. “People might want to prove their version’s the real one, make tests and so on.”

  “Which opens up a whole new line of business for actors not good enough to work in the theatres: faking tests for printers.” b’Estorr grinned. “Like false necromancers, conjuring up ghosts that can be fully seen, and can speak, and accuse their murderers.”

  Rathe matched the grin, remembering the play that had dealt with ghosts in just that way. b’Estorr had liked it about as much as he himself had liked The Drowned Island.

  “We’re lucky in one thing, though,” b’Estorr went on. “It’s not going to be that easy to put arrangements together this time of year. Oh, the people who bought corms in the spring will be able to do some of it, but what you have right now is trouble in potential, I think. And not that many people are going to have the patience to buy a copy of the Alphabet now, and the corms, and then to wait the six to eight months for the corms to come into bloom. And they won’t all want the same stars, or bloom at the same season.”