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  Point of Dreams

  ( Astreiant - 2 )

  Melissa Scott

  Lisa A. Barnett

  The city of Astreiant has gone crazy with enthusiasm for a new play, The Drowned Island, a lurid farrago of melodrama and innuendo. Pointsman Nicolas Rathe is not amused, however, at a real dead body on stage and must investigate. A string of murders follow, perhaps related to the politically important masque that is to play on that same stage. Rathe must once again recruit the help of his soldier lover, Philip Eslingen, whose knowledge of actors and the stage, and of the depths of human perversity and violence, blends well with Rathe's own hard-won experience with human greed and magical mayhem. Their task is complicated by the season, for it is the time of year when the spirits of the dead haunt the city and influence everyone, and also by the change in their relationship when the loss of Philip's job forces him to move in with Nicolas. Mystery, political intrigue, floral magic, astrology, and romance--both theatrical and personal-- combine to make this a compelling read.

  Melissa Scott and Lisa A. Barnett

  " Point Of Dreams: the second pointsman book ."

  Points of Dreams

  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 Islandand 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. He made his way to the bar anyway, feeling the ghosts gathering again behind him, and the barmaid came to meet him with the faint lines of a frown between her brows. She was no maid, more likely a grandmother, and Eslingen forced a smile.

  “Is there hot whiskey, dame?”

  She nodded, slowly, her eyes fixed on the room behind him, and it was all Eslingen could do to keep from turning. “Ay, soldier. Three demmings.”

  Eslingen produced the coins, laid them carefully on the knife‑scarred counter. “How’d you know I’d been a soldier?”

  The old woman laughed, a cackle that stirred the old men at the fire to look curiously at them. “You brought your company with you.”

  And so I did. Eslingen nodded, seeing them again at the edges of his sight–companionable, really, a company on the verge of going into winter quarters–and slowly felt himself relax a little. It was the ghost‑tide, that was all, the ghosts and his melancholy and maybe even his fears, just the stars turning, opening a brief door, letting the ghosts of the timely dead walk where usually only the untimely could, or did. And the violence of the deaths around him had nothing to do with untimeliness. They had accepted the possibility when they signed on. None of these shades meant ill.

  He watched the old woman pour a thrifty dram from the stone bottle warming in its simmering pot, wrapped his long fingers around the thick clay as it warmed to his touch. The liquor smelled of cloves and allspice, and he lifted the glass to the empty room before he drained it. The old woman nodded, grim approval, and he set the glass back on the bar, feeling oddly better. He’d been dreading seeing his ghosts, he realized; at least these weren’t the ones he feared.

  Nicolas Rathe hesitated at the top of the stair that led down to the main room of the s
tation at Point of Dreams, ready to offer a hand to the tiny woman at his side. She smiled abstractedly, recognizing the thought, but made her own way down without hesitation, her heeled shoes tapping on the wood. Even with them, her head barely reached his shoulder, and he was merely of middling height himself. In the room below, he could see the duty points watching them sidelong, with barely concealed amusement, and he frowned down at them, willing them to keep silent. Every ghost‑tide–when the shades of the timely as well as the untimely dead made their presence felt, from the greatest to the least–brought people to the points, afraid that their mothers or rich aunts or neighbors had been murdered after all, and most of those could be dismissed as either honest error or hopeful greed. But this one… He suppressed the desire to shake his head, schooled his face to careful neutrality. Sohier, the duty point, had warned him when she escorted the woman up to his workroom: Every ghost‑tide, she said, every ghost‑tide Mistress Evaly comes to say she fears her sister who died last spring might have been murdered after all, and every year for all the four years I’ve been here, it’s been last spring the sister died. They had had the same thing in Point of Hopes, a seamstress whose daughter died in childbed still convinced the girl’s lover had murdered her and the baby, and all any pointsman could do was listen to the tale and send her home again as kindly as possible. He frowned at Leenderts, who seemed inclined to say something, and the younger man swallowed the words unspoken. At least that had been the policy in Point of Hopes; he would make sure it was followed in Point of Dreams as well.

  He opened the station door, miming surprise at finding it fully dark outside. “Mistress, do you need company home?”

  As he spoke, he let his eyes roam across the waiting points. He was still getting used to Point of Dreams, a lateral promotion if ever there was one, but he’d already learned whom he couldn’t trust with such a delicate task. Leenderts, for one, the man had the sensitivity of a cargo barge; but Sohier was clever, could handle it, and Amireau as well. Voillemin, the other adjunct point, would probably make a decent job of it, had learned his manners from a merchant‑resident mother, but the door to his workroom was closed.