Point of Dreams Read online

  Point of Dreams

  • a novel of astreiant •

  Melissa Scott & Lisa A. Barnett

  Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords.com

  Copyright © 2001 Melissa Scott & Lisa A. Barnett.

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First edition published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc./Tor Books in 2001.

  This edition published in 2012 by Lethe Press, Inc.

  118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018

  www.lethepressbooks.com • [email protected]

  isbn: 1-59021-313-0

  isbn-13: 978-1-59021-313-1

  eISBN 978-1-59021-255-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

  Cover and interior design: Alex Jeffers.

  Cover artwork: Ben Baldwin.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Scott, Melissa.

  Point of dreams : a novel of Astreiant / Melissa Scott & Lisa A. Barnett.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59021-313-1 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Theater--Fiction. I. Barnett, Lisa A. II. Title.

  PS3569.C672P6 2012

  813’.54--dc23

  2012011785

  ~

  • Praise for the Novels of Astreiant •

  Point of Dreams

  “A warmly inviting story where astrology and magic work, and ghosts sometimes name their murderer.”

  —Romantic Times

  “The scenario’s unusually well developed and intricately plotted…. Solidly engrossing.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Readers of police procedurals will recognize the form of Point of Dreams, if not the details, which are necessarily changed by the fantasy setting…. Scott and Barnett blend the genres deftly, transposing their mystery plot seamlessly into their magical world, effectively building suspense and scattering both clues and red herrings with panache. The writing is skillful, as is the characterization…. Best of all, though, is the world-building. Scott and Barnett have created a setting so densely detailed that it’s at times hard to remember you aren’t reading about a real place…. Point of Dreams is a thoroughly rewarding reading experience.”

  —SF Site

  Point of Knives

  “Scott returns to the intrigue-laden city of Astreiant in this novella, which bridges the gap between 1995’s Point of Hopes and 2001’s Point of Dreams…. Primarily an intriguing pseudo-police procedural, this fantasy also serves as a satisfying romantic story, with strong world building and great characterization that will leave readers wanting more.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Blood, alchemy, sexual tension, murder, intrigue, and truly wonderful characters: Melissa Scott’s Point of Knives delivers them all, in a world that seems so real, I’m surprised to look up and find I’m not living in it.”

  —Delia Sherman, author of The Freedom Maze and The Porcelain Dove

  “Rathe and Eslingen are fascinating to follow as they navigate the deadly intrigues and dangerous magic of Point of Knives.”

  —Ginn Hale, author of Wicked Gentlemen

  Point of Hopes

  “Scott and Barnett use elegant and well-crafted language to carry the discerning reader into a world where astrology works. The two handle the interwoven characters, plots, and subplots with skill and an understated sense of wit.”

  —L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

  “An historical fantasy with a rich understanding of history and human motivation…. Half the pleasure of this unique book is in discovering its intricately detailed setting. Couple this with strong main characters and a vivid supporting cast and you’ll find a fantasy well worth seeking out.”

  —Middlesex News

  “Like Scott and Barnett’s previous collaboration, The Armor of Light (1987), this book features good writing, good characterization, and exceedingly superior world-building. Astreiant has a marvelous livedin quality…. Place this one high in the just-plain-good-reading category.”

  —Booklist

  Contents

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13. Epilogue

  Acknowledgment

  About the Authors

  1.

  Philip Eslingen settled himself more comfortably on the padded stool, watching as the woman seated opposite made the final adjustments to her orrery. It was a standing orrery, tiny bronze planets moving on bronze orbits against a silver-washed zodiac, and in spite of himself he shivered at the memory of another similar machine. But that one had been gold, the peculiarly vivid gold of aurichalcum, not solid, reputable bronze, and in any case, it was long gone, consumed by the power it had contained. This was just another astrologer’s tool, though no one would be foolish enough to call Sibilla Meening just another astrologer. She had a name in Point of Dreams, was revered by those actors rich enough to consult her, and feared by the ones who were poor enough to believe that she advised sharers on casting. Caiazzo’s household knew of her, too, and spoke well of her, even Denizard, which was what had finally induced him to part with five seillings—half a week’s wages—when he was about to lose his place and should be saving every demming. At second glance, he was less sure he’d been wise—the consulting room was a little too lavish, too much like a stage set of an astrologer’s room, lined with books and leather cylinders that could only hold scrolls, preferably rotting and mysterious, and Meening herself was portentous in the most formal of university robes, the enormous sleeves held back with gold pins in the shape of a scallop shell, a pearl poised carefully in each fan. Not the symbol Eslingen would have expected—the Starsmith was the usual patron of astrologers, not Oriane—but probably reassuring for the players and musicians and occasional slumming nobles who were her patrons.

  “So, Lieutenant Eslingen,” Meening said, and Eslingen jerked himself back to the present.

  “Magist.” He had no idea if she was actually a magist as well as an astrologer, but from the look of the room, it would do him no harm to assume the higher rank.

  Meening smiled, and shook her head. “I’m only an astrologer, Lieutenant.”

  “ ‘Only’?” Eslingen repeated. “I’ve never heard that word applied to you, madame.”

  Meening blinked once, and then, unexpectedly, grinned. “Gavi warned me about you.”

  Eslingen blinked in his turn, and allowed himself a rueful smile. “Of course you know Gavi.”

  “And, forgive me,” Meening said, “but there’s not an astrologer in the city who doesn’t remember the names of the men who rescued the children not six months past. There’s no need to flatter me like some stumbling bit player who wants a lower fee.”

  “My apologies.”

  Meening nodded. “Now, are you familiar with astrological terms?”

  “I read the broadsheets,” Eslingen said. Beneath the paint and the elaborate gown, he saw, too late, that she was sharply amused. “I’ve even read some of yours.”

  Deliberately, he added nothing more, and Meening dipped her head, acknowledging the hit. “Then you’re aware of the current circumstances.”

  “It’s ghost-tide,” Eslingen said, and suppressed a shudder that he was sure she recognized. No soldier liked to think of his ghosts coming back to haunt him,
no matter how benign.

  “That certainly. The sun is in the Mother, and the moon is in opposition. That is the ghost-tide.” She paused. “Anything more?”

  Eslingen spread his hands. “Madame, I’ve come to you for guidance.”

  “And you say you read my broadsheets.” The mockery was back in her voice, but only briefly. “Very well. In general, then, and then particulars.” She reached out, tapped the orrery gently, making the planets shiver in their courses. “In general, Lieutenant, there are only two planets in a day house, the moon and Seidos, both in the Maiden—the planet of the private person and the planet of tradition both in the house of finance, liberty, and the individual household. That’s good so far as it goes, but all the other planets are in the night houses, the interior world, impulse and intuition, largely unbridled, and their aspects drown this good influence. The sun is largely unaspected, and the aspects that do exist, a triple conjunction and a powerful opposition, tend to cancel each other out. The individual is without direction, particularly in regard to public, everyday affairs. And there is a four-way conjunction”—she reached across the narrow table to turn the orrery on its carved stone base, so that the tangle of planets was obvious—“here, with the Winter-Sun, Tyrseis, Sofia, and Oriane, that overbalances everything. That places the Winter-Sun, planet of transitions and changes, together with the heedless fortune and fertility of Oriane, Tyrseis the trickster, and a retrograde Sofia—justice unblinded, seeing all too clearly—in the Sea-bull, one of its exaltations, the sign of fertile chaos: this is an overwhelming desire to take chances, to gamble, to find a cause to back, a passion to pursue to the point of obsession. It’s also in sextile with Heira—the planet of contracts in the house of secrets and hidden treasures—which just encourages this folly. More, it’s in quincunx with Metenere, which suggests that these gambles and passions will be fruitless, but that’s the only negative aspect to the Winter-Sun. It’s not usually this unaspected.”

  She paused, considering, then turned the orrery again. “This also. The Homestar is in the Dolphin, the house of divine discontent, and it squares Oriane, which is in its exaltation. Again, the individual is without direction. Areton squares the moon: action will be difficult. In general, Lieutenant, Astreiant is primed for folly.”

  “What sort of folly?” Eslingen asked.

  “Ah.” Meening gave her thin smile again. “I thought you wanted a personal reading.”

  “I should think it would have some bearing on my personal follies,” Eslingen answered, and Meening laughed.

  “True enough. Have you seen The Drowned Island?”

  Eslingen blinked, thinking for a second that it was a change of subject—that play had held the interest of almost everyone in Astreiant, from apprentice to merchants resident to the nobles in the Western Reach for almost two months now, unprecedented time, and he had not been able to understand the cause—then tipped his head to one side, considering. “You’re a critic, madame.”

  “I’ve lived in Point of Dreams all my life, Lieutenant. The stars would have to be in a unique configuration before that piece of tripe could catch the imagination of the city. No offense to Gavi, of course.”

  “Of course,” Eslingen echoed. Gavi Jhirassi played the lead, and was making a tidy profit from it, by all accounts. I’ll have to tell Nico, he thought. Maybe it would make him feel better about the play.

  “And that’s only the beginning,” Meening said. “I’ll tell you that for free. There’s a folly coming that will make The Drowned Island and its followers look like the wisest of women.”

  I’ve read that broadsheet, Eslingen thought, suddenly. He’d bought it only a few days ago, and, yes, it had borne Meening’s name, though he’d been told often enough that mere names meant nothing to the printers, that it was common practice to attach a more popular name to an unknown work. The writer—Meening in truth, it seemed—had predicted foolishness to end all foolishness, and warned the wise to lock up their purses and their hearts until the storm had passed. In retrospect, it didn’t seem to be a good omen.

  “And now the personal,” Meening said. She reached for a flat orrery, already set to mimic the stars of Eslingen’s birth. “It’s a pity you don’t know your time more closely.”

  “Yes.” Eslingen felt the stab of a familiar pain. His mother had had too many children by the time she’d borne him, and been too poor to pay a real midwife; she’d given birth with the help of a neighbor and her own oldest daughter, and no one had thought to check the nearest clock until the baby had been cleaned and swaddled.

  Meening went on as though it hardly mattered. “Still, there’s enough for me to work with. In short, Lieutenant, you think you’ve been through some changes lately, personal and professional, but the greatest of them is yet to come. Your world is about to be turned sideways, and with Seidos still in the Maiden, you’ll be without your usual armor until it returns to the Horse. You’re not immune to the urge to gamble, but you’ll have less to lose than usual, so you would be well advised to be very wary.”

  Eslingen drew a shaken breath—there were very few astrologers who’d give so blunt a reading—and Meening smiled as though she’d guessed his thought.

  “I don’t see disaster, though there is always the potential for it, but a mistake now will waste time you will someday regret.”

  “Is this my private life or my profession, madame?” Eslingen asked.

  Meening glanced up, then bent her head to the orrery again. “Are you in love?”

  What a very good question, particularly since I’m about to lose my job over it. “Honestly, madame, I—”

  “You’d better decide then,” Meening said. She straightened in her chair, her eyes suddenly hard, and Eslingen knew then why the actors worshiped her. “Great changes are coming for you, Lieutenant. And great chances, too.”

  Wonderful, Eslingen thought, but couldn’t muster his usual distance. “I have reason to believe that I’m about to lose my position,” he began, and Meening smiled.

  “You will.”

  “And then?”

  “I told you. Your life will be turned sideways. I also see the threat of delays. So you will find another position, probably of comparable worth. I do warn you, you have less to lose right now, so I wouldn’t take any unnecessary chances. And don’t gamble. You will lose there.”

  Eslingen hesitated, knowing he shouldn’t ask, but couldn’t stop himself. “This position that I’m going to find—”

  “You expect much for five seillings,” Meening said.

  “Madame—”

  Meening held up her hand. “My apologies, Lieutenant, truly. I simply don’t know more than I’ve told you. Without better times, there’s nothing more I can do.”

  Eslingen bowed his head in acknowledgment, swallowing an older anger, less at Meening than at his own careless mother. “Then I thank you for what you have done, madame.”

  Meening lifted a hand in casual, infuriating dismissal, and Eslingen was reminded again of the actors who were her most avid patrons. “The best I could, Lieutenant. And remember, beware of folly.”

  It was a long walk back to Customs Point, where Caiazzo kept his house, and the wind off the Sier carried a definite edge. Eslingen drew his coat tighter around his shoulders, glanced at the nearest clock tower, its face bright against the dull pewter clouds. Plenty of time, he thought, he wasn’t due until the evening meal, or it would be if he didn’t dawdle, but in spite of himself, in spite of knowing better, he found his steps slowing. He didn’t really want to go back to Caiazzo’s house, where everyone knew he was on sufferance, Caiazzo only waiting for the right moment to be rid of him. The streets in their own way were warmer, particularly in the pocket markets where candy-sellers vied with the hot-nuts women outside the doors of the more settled stores. Shop-girls and respectable matrons stood in line for both, and the air was heavy with wood smoke and the sharp smell of the roasting nuts. There would be hot cider in the taverns, better than warmed beer on
an autumn evening, and he wished, suddenly, that Rathe was there to share a glass with him. It would have been nice to talk over Meening’s reading with the pointsman, let him turn his southriver common sense loose on it, and hopefully talk him out of the mood that was settling into his bones. Not a bad mood, Eslingen thought, and not a bad feeling, just a melancholy as tart as the smoke-tinged air, and he hesitated for an instant, almost ready to turn on his heel and walk back to Point of Dreams.

  Then his own common sense reasserted itself—it was too far, too impractical, and besides, it was still wise to be discreet, to give Caiazzo time to bring about whatever it was he was planning—and he joined the line in front of the nearest sweet-seller instead. They sold soft sugar candies this time of year, molded in the shapes of castles and horses and—this year—The Drowned Island; he bought four running horses, honoring his birth sign, and paused to nibble one in the doorway of the nearest tavern. The sugar melted on his tongue, sweet with the faintest undertone of bitterness, the taste of autumn itself, and he glanced sideways to see the tavern suddenly crammed with figures. He blinked, startled—he would have sworn there had been only a pair of old men, drinking by the fire—and then recognized at least some few of the faces. Dead men, all of them, old friends and one or two old enemies, and even the winter lover he hadn’t thought of in at least ten years, lounging long-legged against the mantelpiece, laughing with Contemine Laduri, handsome as he’d ever been before a ball smashed his face in some nameless town ten leagues from Altheim. Eslingen caught his breath, turning fully to the door, and the shades vanished again. It was just the ghost-tide, he told himself, nothing more, but in spite of himself he stepped into the cool shadows, and was disappointed when they didn’t reappear.