Point of Sighs

by Melissa Scott

  “Do you need to be bribed to sit by the stove?”

  “Not I. Not today.” Eslingen seated himself at their battered table, stretching bare feet toward the raised bricks where the stove rested. “Sweet Tyrseis, what a night!”

  “The water’s almost hot enough,” Rathe said. “Then we’ll have tea.”

  “I’d rather have something a bit stronger.”

  There was a note in his voice that made Rathe look more closely. Eslingen had drawn the gown tight around himself, arms pressed hard against his sides as though to keep from shivering. “That could be arranged.”

  He found the bottle of menthe, the neck crusted with sugar, worked the stopper free and poured a small glass. Eslingen took it with a nod of thanks, and tossed it back in a single swallow. Rathe lifted an eyebrow, but filled it again.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Cold and wet and tired of being wet.” Eslingen’s smile was wry. “All my planets are in their detriment, and the moon’s in the Dolphin for at least another week.”

  “Can we hope it’ll be better then?” The kettle was bubbling; Rathe found a cloth and filled the teapot.

  “It’s square to retrograde Tyrseis, too,” Eslingen said.

  The retrograde movement intensified the negative effects that came with a challenging square: you didn’t have to be a follower of broadsheet astrology to know that much. Rathe grimaced again. “Drink.”

  Eslingen lifted the little glass in salute, though this time he took only a small swallow. “It’s such petty things. I bought an oiled-silk parasol, and the first gust of wind split the fabric. I can’t walk under any building’s eaves without the run-off landing on me. If there’s a puddle, I’ll stumble into it, and if I can’t get around, it’ll be knee-deep. I tell you, Nico, I’m sick of it.”

  Like Istre b’Estorr at Ghost-tide. Rathe swallowed the words, knowing they wouldn’t make anything better—Eslingen was still touchy about the necromancer, for all that b’Estorr and Rathe had never been more than friends—and poured the tea instead. “Here. This’ll warm you.”

  “Thanks.” Eslingen accepted the cup, sipped cautiously at the steaming liquid. “Ah, that’s good.”

  He was starting to relax, Rathe saw, and settled himself across the table, the teapot and the candles between them. “As it happens, it’s the Staenkas’ ordinary. They give value for the money. And, speaking of whom—did you get Mattaes settled? Sighs didn’t try anything on the way?”

  “No, nothing,” Eslingen answered. “I took him back home, gave him into his sisters’ care—repeated Trijn’s rules for them—and that was pretty much it. Do you think he did it?”

  Rathe shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s that shirt to consider.”

  “Which he says isn’t his.” Eslingen said. “He doesn’t seem like the sort.”

  “No more does he.” Rathe topped up their teacups, and saw Eslingen frown.

  “I nearly forgot. We talked a little on our way back to the house. Mattaes said he’d quarreled with the captain over the captain’s claim for extra expenses, and I wondered if he’d run foul of the same gang that’s threatening Young Steen..”

  “That’s worth following up on,” Rathe agreed.

  Eslingen sighed. “There’s one more thing. Redel Staenka asked me to act for the family in this.”

  Rathe stiffened. This was exactly what he had dreaded from the moment the Guard had been created, one more interested party able to interfere in the points’ investigation. The points were granted the right to enforce the queen’s law, not anyone else, and if they were imperfect—and the gods knew they were often less than entirely honorable, or even fully honest—at least their rights and role were clear. The Guard was supposed to deal only with the nobility, and with foreigners, not with citizens of the city. “What did you say?” He was pleased that his voice was steady.

  “I told her the Guard had no right to do such a thing.”

  But. The word hung in the air between them, clear as daybreak, and the trouble was, this was exactly the sort of exception where someone from the Guard might make a difference. He himself couldn’t go into Point of Sighs, not without considerably more backing than even Trijn was able to give him, never mind willing, and without being able to act, there was no telling whether Mattaes was wrongly accused. Trijn would make use of Eslingen without a second thought, and damn the precedent—and that was exactly how the pontoises had given way to the points, case by case, year by year. And yet—it might still be the best chance of proving the boy’s guilt or innocence.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I didn’t think you would.” Eslingen leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Look, Nico, I’ll follow your lead on this.”

  “I knew this would happen. Damn it, Philip.”

  “If you say no, I won’t do it.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  Eslingen moved closer to Rathe. “Then what is?”

  “We need your help—I need it, Trijn needs it, and the Staenkas need it, because Dammar’s determined to see that boy hang.”

  “He’s not that much of a boy,” Eslingen said. “Let’s talk to Trijn in the morning, and if she says yes, I’ll have a word with Coindarel. Surely there’s a way to make this work.”

  Rathe sighed. “You’re right, damn it. We can figure something out.”

  Eslingen nodded. “In the meantime—it’s late, Nico, and I’m cold, and I swear I’m wet under my skin.”

  “I expect we can do something about that,” Rathe said, and was rewarded with one of Eslingen’s slow and knowing smiles. “Let’s to bed.”

  As Rathe had expected, Trijn was more than willing to make use of the Staenkas’ unexpected request, which did no more to improve his temper than the scudding clouds and the cold draft that whistled through the gaps in the rattling windows.

  “I’ll need to have Coindarel’s permission,” Eslingen said, carefully not looking at Rathe, “but then—I’m at your disposal, Chief.” He paused. “Did you want me to take the bond to him as well?”

  “Yes,” Trijn answered, and drew the packet out from under a pile of papers “And I’d like a bit more detail in young Mattaes’s story. So the sooner you get the Prince-Marshal’s permission, the happier I’ll be.”

  Eslingen bowed. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Trijn waved her hand, and Eslingen withdrew, with only a fleeting glance at Rathe. Rathe caught the rolling eye, however, and tightened his lips to keep from grinning.

  “Sit.” Trijn pointed to the nearest stool. “I know your mood, but even you have to see this is a gods-sent gift.”

  “That the Staenkas want Philip’s help?” Rathe seated himself. “I see that it makes things easier, yes, but—well, you know my arguments.”

  Trijn nodded. “Most swords are double-edged, Nico. But I trust Eslingen more than most. I could take you off the job if you’d like, and give you my word I’ll lay no blame. Astree knows we’ve work enough in hand.”

  Rathe hesitated. It was what he ought to do, he supposed, but he hated to give up any point, least of all one where birth and status complicated matters so thoroughly. And when it came down to it, he and Eslingen worked well together. More than that, he trusted the Leaguer more than he trusted most people, points or not; any help Philip gave him would be whole-hearted and honest, and his own would be the same. And that brought him back to the same tangle, giving away the Points’ hard-won authority, and yet…. He shook his head slowly. “No. I’d like to keep this on my book. There’s something very odd about it.”

  “I hoped you’d say that,” Trijn said. “You’re the best I’ve got, and Eslingen’s your leman, and I’d hate to waste any of that. And, speaking of that—did he get any more news when he delivered the boy?”

  Rathe sighed. “Not exactly, but—yes, there’s another matter to consider. Except it’s properly Sighs’ business.”

  “Joy.” Trijn reached for her pipe.

  “You remember Yo
ung Steen?”

  “Old Steen’s son, the summer-sailor?” Trijn nodded.

  “That’s him. He’s gone somewhat respectable, it seems, and yesterday he pulled Philip aside with a tale about a new extortion gang working the docks, one that wants to be paid in coin and isn’t taking no for an answer.”

  Rathe went through the rest of Eslingen’s story. Trijn listened without comment, smoke veiling her face, but when he had finished, she shook her head. “Eslingen’s right, that’s Sighs’ business entirely, and it sounds like Young Steen knows it perfectly well. And that is inviting the Guard to interfere in how we run our stations.”

  “And I agree,” Rathe said, “though I’d like us to consider passing some word to the surintendant—”

  “Can’t. Not while we’re fighting them over the Staenkas.”

  Rathe let that go. “But there’s another piece of it that may apply. Philip thinks Mattaes and the tea captain may have quarreled about this.”

  “Does he now?” Trijn lowered her pipe.

  “It’s not certain—Philip wasn’t certain, the boy didn’t want to talk about it, and there wasn’t time or place to ask more questions,” Rathe said. “But I think it’s worth pursuing.”

  “I’ll go that far. You’re still on good terms with the cap’pontoise, aren’t you? Cambrai?” She touched flame to the pipe’s bowl, coaxing the embers into brighter color.

  “Euan Cambrai,” Rathe said. “And yes.”

  “I’d think a word with him wouldn’t come amiss.”

  “Agreed.”

  “As for Mattaes….” Trijn squinted at him through the cloud of smoke. “This murder is not our business but this morning I had a formal request from Astarac that one of our people check personally on the boy each day, to assure ourselves that he is keeping to the terms of the bond. I’d like you to handle that today, and to explain the procedure to Meisenta.”

  And if he happened to find time to ask a few questions about dockside extortion, no one would need to know. Rathe didn’t need to have the rest of it spelled out. “I can do that, Chief. The usual routine?”

  “Yes, and write a note for me to co-sign once you’ve done it.” Trijn waved her hand again, though Rathe wasn’t sure whether it was dismissal or to clear some of the smoke. “And talk to Cambrai.”

  Sohier was still on the night watch, and the rest of the junior points seemed burdened with a busy day’s work, so he checked the duty point’s book and collected his truncheon before heading out. The rain had finally stopped, but the wind was up, whipping bits of straw and scrap and dead leaves down the length of the street, while women clutched awkwardly at hats and hoods. Overhead, the scudding clouds showed a few scraps of blue, but there was a weight to the air that hinted at more rain to come. Rathe made a face, and turned toward the Staenkas’ house. Better to get that over with first, and then he’d be in a position to take a low-flyer home from the Chain if the weather turned. If he had to go that far to find Cambrai.

  By daylight, the street where the Staenkas lived looked more prosperous, each walk and short flight of steps scrubbed until the stone gleamed, the narrow dooryards swept clean of leaves and debris. With the main sun up, the watchman’s box was closed and locked, but he could tell that his presence was noted. Within the hour, everyone on the street would know that the points had visited the Staenkas again.

  There was nothing he could do about that, and he refused to feel guilty: either the boy would be proved innocent, or not, and only the facts would determine that. He climbed the stairs to the main door and knocked. The butler answered quickly enough that Rathe suspected someone had warned him, and invited him into the hall without hesitation.

  “Though if I may say so, Adjunct Point—it is Adjunct Point Rathe, is it not?”

  Rathe nodded.

  “Dame Redel is at the counting house, as she usually is during the season.”

  “My business was with Madame Staenka, I believe,” Rathe said. “And also to Mattaes. I’d like to speak to her, but I will need to see him. In person.”

  “Madame is in the stillroom.” Drowe threw open the door to a small room that seemed to serve as a library rather than a parlor. “If you’ll wait here, sir, I’ll see if she can meet with you. In the meantime, I can send Master Mattaes to you if that would serve.”

  The room was long and narrow, and the stove was unlit; the upper shutters of the one long window were folded back, but the cloudy light barely seemed to lift the shadows. The main piece of furniture was a single long table strewn with books: he doubted he was going to be offered tea and cakes, or any of the other amenities of a polite visit. Most of the books on the table dealt with botany—as did most of the books on the shelves, or so it seemed at first glance. Appropriate for a tea family, he thought, but it seemed odd that they weren’t kept closer to the stillroom. Except that if Meisenta was the tea-mistress, as she seemed to be, receipt books would be of no use without someone to read them to her, unless she’d devised some other way of keeping her notes. Some blind women did, or so he’d heard.

  The door opened behind him, and he turned to see Mattaes hesitating in the doorway. “Drowe said you needed to see me, Adjunct Point?”

  “Point of Sighs has requested that we check on you daily. To be sure you’ve kept your bond.”

  “But we already gave our word,” Mattaes began, and stopped, scowling. He was clearly dressed for a day at home, a plain shirt and breeches patched at the knee beneath a loose coat. “Not to mention the bond itself.”

  “Understood,” Rathe said. “But—as you know—Point of Sighs has rights in this. They’re going to demand that you fulfill every requirement to the letter.”

  “There’s not much else I can do,” Mattaes said. “Well. Here I am.”

  “Duly noted. Someone will come from Dreams each day—not always at the same time—and when they do, they’ll need to see you in person.”

  “Oh, very well. Meisenta won’t be pleased.”

  “Chief Trijn asked me to explain the situation,” Rathe said. “And we’ve another matter on our books that touches the docks, and I wondered if I might ask you a question or two about that.”

  Mattaes shrugged. “You can ask, certainly, and I’ll do my best. But I’m no expert.”

  “They’re very general things,” Rathe said. “About how things usually work on the docks. For one—I gather there are sizable fees to be paid when a cargo is brought ashore?”

  “Yes.” Mattaes’s voice remained indifferent.

  “Who pays them, generally, the captain or the cargo’s owner?”

  “It depends. If the captain’s on retainer to her owner, then the owner generally pays. If the captain’s carrying goods for several merchants, then she pays and generally the merchants reimburse her. Or if she’s bought her own cargo at a venture, then she pays or sometimes the factor pays.”

  “I’ve heard a rumor that the dockers are asking for higher fees this year.” Rathe glanced sideways as he spoke, and was unsurprised to see Mattaes’s gaze flicker.

  “I’ve—there’s been talk, but I don’t really know about that.”

  “But didn’t you say your sister asked you to handle such matters for the family now?”

  “But our ship hasn’t come home yet. So far, it’s been the captains’ business, not mine.”

  “Was that what you argued with bes’Anthe about?”

  Mattaes flinched. “I—that’s not exactly—”

  Rathe lifted his eyebrows, and Mattaes stopped, flushing.

  “Well, yes, that was part of it. He said we owed him for the extra he’d had to pay, and I told him he was a fool, and he threatened to take our cargo—our cargo, that he’d bought with our money—to the factors and get a better price. I told him if he did, we’d have him up before the regents, and by the time we were done, no one would ever hire him again. But I didn’t kill the man.”

  Rathe let the denial lie, not knowing whether he believed it or not. “What do your sisters say?”r />
  Mattaes rolled his eyes, looking younger than his years. “They chide me for not paying him. And they’re probably right.”

  “Was he asking more than usual?”

  “I may be new to the business, but I did handle the factors last year, and I know what’s proper,” Mattaes said, indignantly. “bes’Anthe was trying to squeeze the family for almost twice as much as last year..”

  “Had he paid out money already, or was he trying to get you to pay what he owed?”

  Mattaes blinked. “I—I don’t actually know. I thought he wanted to be paid back, but now that you ask, I don’t think that’s what he said…. He might have said he couldn’t pay? I don’t remember.”

  “If he owed the dockers money, it gives someone else a reason to want him dead.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” Mattaes frowned, but shook his head again. “I’m sorry, Adjunct Point, I can’t remember exactly what he said.”

  Surely a guilty man—or even someone more worldly—would pounce on the excuse, Rathe thought, but he wasn’t sure what it meant that Mattaes didn’t. He said, “I’ve also heard a rumor that the people who want higher fees aren’t taking no for an answer. And they want to be paid in cash.”

  “Now that may be true. bes’Anthe was determined to be paid in coin.”

  Rathe considered him for a moment, trying to frame his next question, but the door opened behind him.

  “Excuse me, Adjunct Point,” Drowe said, “but if you’ve satisfied yourself as to Master Mattaes’s whereabouts, Madame will see you.”

  The servant’s tone suggested an order rather than a request. In any case he’d run out of useful questions. He reassured himself with the notion that the dead captain was Sighs’ business, not his—though he’d certainly drop a word in Cambrai’s ear. “Thank you,” he said, and followed Drowe from the room.

  The man led him down the long hall, beneath the formal stair that led to the upper floors, then past the door that led to the kitchens. Light spilled from the doorway, and Rathe could hear cheerful voices, but Drowe ignored them, pausing instead to knock at a closed door. In most wealthy houses, that door would give on the courtyard, or perhaps a covered walk that led to the privies, but instead this one swung back to reveal an enclosed hallway, its walls neatly painted to resemble paneling. A small woman peered out at them, a long canvas apron covering skirt and bodice, and a twist of scarf confining her hair.