Point of Sighs

by Melissa Scott

  “And in the meantime, Sighs will try to prove his story, or find someone who saw him at the tavern after he left,” Rathe said. He kept his voice as neutral as possible, but Dammar sighed anyway.

  “I doubt we’ll find anything. It’s a clear point, madame, I’m sorry to say.”

  Meisenta retreated to her chair, and they stood in silence until Mattaes and Leenderts reappeared, Mattaes now bundled in a hooded cape. As they headed back out into the dark, Rathe managed to brush up against the prisoner, and felt the wool damp against his palm. Not that it meant much, but it seemed as though the cloak had had time to dry out a little. Outside, it was still raining, and they paused in the middle of the street to adjust hoods and lanterns. Dammar tugged his own cloak tighter, hunching his shoulders against the wet.

  “Rathe. I’d be willing to share the fee if you’ll let me take him on to Point of Sighs for the night. You could have him back in the morning if you really want him, but by then I guarantee you we’ll have enough to make the point stick.”

  Rathe took a deep breath, anger washing over him. “You took Madame Staenka’s fee.” He let the rest of the accusation hover—it was bad enough to take fees, but to take them and break the agreement was outside the pale—but Dammar merely shrugged.

  “If she wants to pay me, that’s her business. And before you get too righteous, consider that I’m doing no more than you do yourself. I go my own way, without favor. If they’re fool enough to offer—well, a fool turns aside.”

  “I keep my word,” Rathe said, hearing his voice tighten. “And since you’ve made it my business, I’ll keep yours for you.”

  “It’s a waste of time. The boy knifed him, that’s obvious. It’s just a matter of getting a confession.” He spread his hands, the light from his lantern flashing from the puddles and wet cobbles. “All right, we’ll do it the hard way. But I’ll find the witnesses, make no mistake.”

  If he lost his temper now, Rathe reminded himself, it would give Dammar an excuse to contest the arrangement. “I’m sure you will.”

  “And I’ll tell you now—and Trijn. This is Sighs’ business, not Dreams’. If I catch any of your people on my patch—”

  He broke off, and Rathe lifted his own lantern. “Was that a threat, Adjunct Point?”

  “A statement of fact, Adjunct Point.” Dammar showed teeth like a pocket terrier, pale and sharp in the lantern light. “And Astarac won’t take kindly to your interference.”

  “Chief Astarac can take that up with Chief Trijn,” Rathe said. To his relief, he could see the walls of Point of Dreams ahead of them, the magelights flaring from the gatehouse.

  Dammar saw it too, and shook his head. “On your head be it. I’ll take my people home, then—since I know I can trust you to lock him up.”

  For that, Rathe thought, I’m tempted to lodge him at the nearest inn, with whatever company he’d like. “That’s the agreement.”

  Dammar flourished a bow. “I’ll leave you to it, Adjunct Point.”

  Sohier swore under her breath, and Rathe glanced sideways. “And how much of that did you hear?”

  “Enough to know he doesn’t stay bought.” Sohier shook her head. “Do you really think he did it?”

  “Mattaes?”

  Sohier nodded.

  “You found the blood.” Rathe sighed. “I don’t know what to think, not without a lot more information. Which I’m unlikely to get, given it’s Sighs’ point and Dammar’s warned us off. Come on, let’s get inside and get dry.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Philip Eslingen rested his elbows on the fence that bordered the new riding ring, grateful for the breeze that sent the clouds scudding across the sky. Only the day-sun was up now, but the mare in the ring had taken offense at the flickering shadows; the training sergeant, Sendoya, leaned back at the end of the long line, turning her into the light. She steadied then, and he clicked his tongue, sending her back into a steady walk.

  “She moves well,” Matalin Rijonneau said, leaning against the fence himself, and Eslingen nodded.

  “Good bones, too. But she’ll need another year, maybe two, before we can trust her.”

  “At that rate, we’ll all still be afoot when we get our commissions.” Rijonneau was the City Guard’s second captain, a deceptively willowy Ajanine, one of the hundred sons of impoverished nobility whose mothers had bought them a horse and a sword and sometimes a breastplate and dispatched them into the world. Rijonneau at least seemed to know his business—but then, the Prince-Marshal Coindarel rarely promoted incompetents, however pretty.

  “Better than trying to take her into a crowd,” Eslingen answered, and Rijonneau laughed. They were both stripped to shirtsleeves for the work at hand, and Eslingen guessed he was as dust-streaked as his fellow captain. ”Who else do we have to see today?”

  “Only one more horse, thank Seidos,” Rijonneau answered. “But we’re to meet with Estradere and the Prince-Marshal to talk over the candidates.”

  Eslingen sighed. Every noblewoman at the queen’s court was vying to get a son or a nephew appointed to the new Guard, which carried the status of a commission with little risk they’d be sent into battle. He was determined to get people who would be willing to work for the Points—it was one of the promises he’d made Rathe when he took the captaincy—but in practice that meant offending more women of rank than seemed wise.

  In the ring, Sendoya brought the mare to a stop and moved in to stroke her long neck, murmuring praise. Out of the corner of his eye, Eslingen saw movement by the stables, turned to see the youngest of the candidates, Balfort de Vian, being boosted into the saddle of a heavy-muscled near-black gelding. Sendoya led the mare away, and the boy—he really was a boy, only seventeen, a striking beauty and the son of one of the Queen’s Wardrobe-keepers—edged the gelding through the gate.

  “Who’s this one?” Eslingen asked, and Rijonneau consulted a slip of paper.

  “Prince Crow. Ten years old, supposedly trained to the cavalry.”

  “We’ve far too many kings and princes in this bunch,” Eslingen murmured, thinking of the mount he’d claimed for his own, King of Thieves, and leaned his weight against the fence.

  “Give us a couple of circuits to settle him,” Rijonneau called, “then you can put him through his paces.”

  De Vian lifted a hand in acknowledgement, and edged the gelding into a neat trot, moving clockwise around the ring. Eslingen eyed the gelding’s sleek muscles, the arch of his neck and the easy gait, and heard Rijonneau sigh.

  “Very pretty.”

  “The horse or the boy?”

  “They’re both very nice to look at,” Rijonneau said, “but I know I can’t afford the horse.”

  That struck a little close to home: Eslingen had earned his first commission in the marshal’s bed. “I expect the dealer wants a pretty price.”

  “So she does, and then some. Still, Coindarel swears he’ll pay for what we need—”

  “I’ll believe that once he’s seen the bill,” Eslingen said. It wasn’t that he thought Coindarel would go back on his word, or stint them if he could help it, but well-trained horses didn’t come cheap. Even in the autumn after the campaign season was ended and impoverished troopers were willing to sell animals they couldn’t afford to feed, most would rather go hungry themselves than give up a well-trained mount.

  Rijonneau grinned. “Well, there’s that. I wonder what nasty habit this one’s going to have?”

  “Cribbing,” Eslingen said.

  “No sign of that so far.”

  “Biter.”

  “Not near as bad as your beast.”

  “King of Thieves doesn’t bite,” Eslingen said, with mock dignity. “He merely takes.”

  “Buttons, ribbons, hats, sleeves,” Rijonneau agreed. “Oh, that’s nice.”

  Eslingen nodded, watching Prince Crow stop neatly from a canter, de Vian nearly motionless on his back. He heard de Vian cluck to the horse, the shift of weight invisible, and Prince Crow moved into a lov
ely high-stepping trot. De Vian brought him back across the ring with a half pass, then moved into a canter and a series of neat lead changes.

  “School movements,” Rijonneau said, but Eslingen could hear the desire in his voice.

  “The seller warrants he’s seen battle.”

  “Yes, but how did he stand it?” Rijonneau gave a wry smile. “Oh, I’ll admit he’s a beauty, and I’d love to have him for my mount. But one must be practical.”

  Eslingen shrugged. “My advice will be to buy him, if you want a practical word. We’re not going to find so many horses this well trained that we can afford to pass them by.” He lifted a hand to catch de Vian’s attention. “Balfort! Bring him over, and tell us what you think.”

  De Vian wheeled neatly and cantered back across the ring, sliding to a stop beside the fence. “Oh, Captain, he’s lovely! Mouth like silk, supple in the shoulders. The Marshal has to buy him.”

  “I’ll tell him you said so,” Rijonneau said, and bright color flooded de Vian’s ivory skin. He looked even younger on the big gelding, slight and hatless, chestnut hair fraying from its queue, the blush still staining his high cheekbones, and Eslingen suppressed a sigh. He couldn’t imagine de Vian calling a point on a foreigner, let alone wading into a fight. Still, pretty boys had been belying their looks since time began, and a little honest enthusiasm did no one any harm.

  In the distance, the clock at Manufactory Point struck noon, and Eslingen pushed himself away from the fence. “We should give him a try ourselves if he’s that good, but not today. Finish exercising him, Balfort, and when you’re done make a note of anything we should know about. In the meantime—you and I have an appointment with the Marshal, Matalin.”

  They collected coats and hats, and stopped in the stable yard to draw water from the well and sluice off the worst of the dust, shivering in the chill. Eslingen shrugged into vest and coat and loosed his hair from its ribbon, while Rijonneau finished washing his face, wiping his hands on the skirts of his coat.

  “And I could wish we had a pump, not a well,” he said, “and I’m none so fond of barracks living.”

  Eslingen grunted agreement. The companies he’d served with had always been billeted on civilians in the towns where they were stationed, which had its disadvantages, but also offered certain freedoms. “At least we only have to be here when we’re on duty.”

  “That’s right, you’ve a leman to think of,” Rijonneau said, with a quick grin.

  Eslingen spread his hands. “One has obligations.”

  “And ours is to the Marshal,” Rijonneau said, regretfully, and collected his hat.

  Barracks and stables had been part of a caravansary built some years before by a Silklands merchant-venturer to house her Chenedolliste family and business. The stables were ordinary enough, but the residence was Silklands style, long and low, with a roofed arcade running along the side that faced the courtyard. That allowed most of the newly-partitioned rooms to have their own door and windows, and the old shop and common spaces had been converted into a dining hall, armory, and workrooms. Coindarel had taken over one of the workrooms, and Eslingen was pleased to see that someone had sent for the noon meal from the Ship, the best of the neighborhood taverns. There were three big pies as well as a pitcher of wine, and as he took his place at the table, his own sergeant, Faraut, nudged him and passed him a knife. Eslingen cut himself a generous slice, glancing around the table to see who was still missing. Coindarel himself was there, of course, genial at the head of the table, and Sendoya and Rijonneau’s sergeant Vaulevenarges, which left only Coindarel’s own Master Sergeant, Patric Estradere. Even as he thought that, however, the door opened, and Estradere appeared, murmuring an apology as he took his place at the table’s foot.

  “About the horses,” Coindarel said. “That’s quite a list you’ve given me.”

  Over the course of the meal, Estradere took notes with one hand and ate with the other. Coindarel complained about costs, but, as Eslingen had expected, agreed to most.

  “I won’t pay more than a petty-crown for that gray mare.” Coindarel poured another cup of wine. ”She’s too young. She’s barely trained.”

  Eslingen heard Faraut sigh—she had had her eye on the little mare—but he couldn’t argue with Coindarel’s reasoning. Both King of Thieves and Prince Crow had made the main list and that was all he would ask for just now.

  “That brings us to the more difficult question,” Estradere said. “The company itself.”

  “There are twenty-five places, and nine of those are filled,” Coindarel said. “The rest—well, now you’ve seen them. Is there anyone you don’t want?”

  “Bertelieu,” Eslingen said promptly. “His sixteen quarterings have gone to his head, and he won’t take orders. I don’t want a man who won’t work with the points.”

  Rijonneau nodded agreement, and Estradere reached for another list. “Shall I strike him?” he said, to Coindarel, and the Prince-Marshal nodded.

  “Aldemayor,” Vaulevenarges said, and Rijonneau nodded again.

  “Same reason.”

  “Pallianne,” Sendoya said. “I hate to say it, she’s more than willing, but—her stars are against her.”

  “She’s the one who keeps getting hurt?” Faraut asked, and Sendoya nodded.

  “She’s been kicked, stepped on, thrown once—nothing broken, but her wrist swelled up like a melon. She’s like to get herself killed.”

  “Her mother is the Grand Silvan of Tscharn,” Estradere said. “It would please her majesty if she remained on the rolls until she chose to leave herself.”

  “Yes, but she won’t,” Sendoya said.

  “Perhaps one of the captains could have a word with her,” Coindarel said. “Otherwise, she stays.”

  Eslingen sighed. That would probably fall to him, as the senior captain, and that was never a pleasant conversation, telling someone that their dream went against the stars of their birth. And some people did make their way in unlikely professions, against their natal horoscopes, but it was never easy.

  “We’re still five over,” Estradere said. “Anyone else?”

  There was a moment of silence, and finally Rijonneau said, “What about de Vian?”

  Even his own sergeant gave him a startled look. Eslingen said, “I’ve seen nothing wrong with the boy.”

  “I’m not saying there is. There’s nothing wrong with him or any of the rest of them.” Rijonneau spread his hands. “But nor is he that much better than anyone else, and he’s only seventeen….” He shook his head. “If he’s even that, I’m not sure he hasn’t added a year. If we let him go, he could apply again when he’s older.”

  Eslingen grimaced. If he’d been turned away at fourteen, when he’d run away to join a company, with no more skills than what he’d learned growing up in a stable—but de Vian wasn’t a motherless boy from Esling, he reminded himself. “He has enthusiasm. And he’s willing to learn.”

  “Have you been giving lessons, vaan Esling?” Coindarel smiled meaningfully, and Eslingen felt himself blush.

  “He came to us knowing more or less what a good fencing master teaches his middling students, and now he’s seventh or eighth best in the company. At his age and build, that’s doing well.”

  Faraut looked up from her plate. “I’ve been giving him extra lessons, sir—and before anyone asks, not that kind—and he’s been more willing to work than most of those sixteen-quartering bastards. Begging your pardon, sir.”

  Rijonneau made a face. ”Who do we get rid of, then? I’m not averse to keeping him, but you heard the man, we’re still over strength.”

  Estradere turned over a sheet of paper. “The boy’s sister is the Vidame d’Entrebeschaire—the mother was a Mistress of the Queen’s Wardrobe, received the title on retirement. She’s dead now, and the sister is trying to place him respectably—she did not inherit her mother’s place in the Wardrobe. There are two other brothers to provide for.”

  “All right,” Rijonneau said, “not
the boy.”

  Eslingen nodded in agreement. Maybe that was what had caught his attention, besides the boy’s looks: de Vian had flung himself into every task as though he was looking for a home.

  “Well, sort it out among yourselves,” Coindarel said. “I can’t and won’t fund the company at this size—you’ll have to rid yourselves of some of them.”

  Eslingen and Estradere nodded.

  “In the meantime….” Coindarel rose gracefully, the skirts of his long coat swirling. “I’m sure you have plenty left to do.”

  Coindarel hadn’t been wrong about that, Eslingen thought, as he made his way west along the Sier’s northern bank. At least it was early enough still that he could spend an hour at the baths, and maybe even spend the extra demming for the masseur. He could feel the day’s work in back and seat and thighs. It was too early yet for the hot-nut vendors to be out, but the apple-men were present, elderly men from the country with baskets on their arms and knitted caps shaped like their goods. Eslingen slowed his pace as he spotted a man selling the small, sweet fruit called love-knots, and happily paid a demming for three. He tucked two into his pockets, heedless of whether it might spoil the fabric, and bit into the third, eyes closing as he tasted the familiar crisp sweetness. Juice ran down his chin; he wiped it with the back of his hand, then licked his fingers before tossing what was left of the core into the nearest midden. He wondered if Rathe liked them: one of the many things they’d not yet learned about each other.

  “Hsst! Captain!”

  Eslingen looked up sharply, hand drifting toward the knife he wore beneath his coat. There weren’t many people in Astreiant who knew him by that rank, and not all of them were friendly. For a moment, he couldn’t tell who called, but then a man moved in the shadow of a doorway. Eslingen blinked, recognizing a sailor’s knitted tunic and wide trousers, and then the straw-colored hair triggered memory: Young Steen, captain of the Soeuraigne of Bedarres—a man with ties to both Eslingen’s old employer Hanselin Caiazzo and to the honest work of the riverfront.