Point of Sighs

by Melissa Scott

  “Maybe.” Rathe’s smile was wry. “I’ve just never met one.”

  The apprentice returned minutes later, accompanied by an older journeyman still wiping his hands on a stained towel. “Fanier says if it’s about the tea captain, he can’t tell you any more than he told Point of Sighs.”

  Eslingen saw Rathe’s lips twitch—that was more what one expected from the deadhouse—and had to look away before he laughed.

  “I don’t expect any more than that,” Rathe said, “but I still want to talk to him.”

  The journeyman tucked the towel through his belt, letting it fall with the stains to the inside. “All right, then, but I’m to say I warned you.”

  “Understood,” Rathe said, and they followed the boys through the maze of corridors.

  To Eslingen’s relief, they finished up at one of the workrooms, not one of the wide examination rooms. The air was still chill, and weirdly scentless, but there were no visible signs of the bodies that filled the building. Fanier himself was standing beside a worktable, looking over the shoulder of a fair-haired journeyman who was busy copying something from a holder. He looked up as they came in, and removed his brass-framed spectacles, tucking them into the front of his loosely-knitted sailor’s jersey. A second pair of spectacles sat atop his head, held by his unruly gray hair.

  “Did they tell you I don’t have anything new?”

  “They did,” Rathe said. “But the problem is, I haven’t seen your old report.”

  Fanier nodded. “I wondered if that was it. I’m having a copy made.”

  “Thanks.” Rathe gave a crooked smile. “Would you be willing to answer a few questions, before Sighs tells you not to?”

  “Oh, is it likely to come to that? And what’s this I hear about Edild Dammar throwing himself in the Sier?”

  “I doubt he did it himself,” Rathe said. “He was beaten and stabbed first, he’s damned lucky the pontoises found him as quickly as they did.”

  “Not a lovely man,” Fanier said, “but I don’t wish that on anyone.” He shook his head. “Should I be expecting you to take on this tea captain?”

  Rathe grimaced. “Not officially. But Sighs has called the point on the tea merchant’s son, and he’s Dreams’ responsibility, plus Philip here has been asked to keep an eye on things for the family.”

  “And we didn’t like to disturb Sighs when they’re bound to be in disarray over their man being attacked,” Eslingen put in, with his most guileless stare, and surprised a laugh from Fanier.

  “Well, they’ve not said anything to the contrary, so you’re welcome to a copy of the report. Do you want to see the body, too?”

  “Not really,” Eslingen said, “but I suppose we’d better.”

  bes’Anthe’s body lay in the deadhouse crypt, down a curved stair that brought them into a vaulted space lit with mage-lights. Eight temporary coffins stood on racks along the wall, and Fanier counted silently until they reached the fifth. “This is him,” he said, and began unfastening the clamps that held the lid. Eslingen braced himself for smells and discoloration, but the body in the coffin seemed almost untouched, eyes closed, broad-boned face slack, hands upturned at his side. Even the knife-wound at the base of his ribcage had been washed clean, could have been a scar or a birthmark; it was just the waxy tone of the skin proved that the man wasn’t sleeping.

  “Not a trained blow,” he said, shaking himself back to business, and Fanier nodded.

  “No, but a lucky one. Caught one of the large blood vessels, the man died quick.”

  “Not something I’d like to rely on if I wanted to kill a man.” Rathe reached into the coffin and lifted the man’s right hand, studying the palm and then the fingernails. He repeated the examination on the other hand, and laid it down again, careful to put it back in its original position. “No sign that he fought.”

  “My guess is, he was taken by surprise,” Fanier said. “And since he was taken from the front, he saw his killer. I imagine he didn’t think to run away.”

  “Which could mean it was either a total stranger, or someone he knew well,” Rathe said. “Sadly, from what we know of the circumstances, it could be either one.”

  “But less likely to be Mattaes,” Eslingen said, “since they’d just had a shouting match. I can’t see him letting the boy just walk up and stab him.”

  “Unless he didn’t take him seriously as a threat,” Rathe said. He shook his head. “Anything else we ought to know?”

  Fanier shook his head. “He’s a most unremarkable dead man. Do you know if he has kin? I’d be glad to have him taken away.”

  “You’re full up,” Eslingen said, looking at the coffins, and Fanier laughed.

  “The river’s running fierce this autumn.”

  “It’s not those dogfish people are talking about, is it?” Eslingen said. He looked at Rathe. “I thought you said they were invented.”

  “Oh, has that reached the broadsheets?” Fanier asked.

  Rathe lifted his eyebrows. “Please tell me you’re not saying yes to that question.”

  Fanier chuckled. “There haven’t been greater dogfish in the Sier in two hundred years. But by the look of these poor bastards, there are some exceedingly large ordinary dogfish out there. The pontoises pulled a body—as yet unnamed, though he’s probably a sailor—pulled him out of the river four days ago, just above the Exemption Docks. Something had eaten about a third of the corpse. I suspect a pack of dogfish.”

  “I thought they were solitary hunters,” Rathe said.

  “Maybe they were spawning.” Fanier shrugged. “We don’t have so many tests that are specific for being eaten by fish.”

  “Sounds as though you might need to develop some,” Rathe began, and the door at the top of the stairs slammed open.

  “Adjunct Point! There’s a runner for you from Point of Dreams!”

  “That’s never good,” Eslingen said involuntarily.

  “No,” Rathe said, his voice grim, and started for the stairs.

  The runner was waiting in the main lobby, still panting as though she’d run most of the way. She held out a folded slip of paper, and Rathe took it, unfolding it with a frown that deepened as he read. “Did you walk?”

  The runner shook her head. “I took a low-flyer most of the way.”

  “Good.”

  “What is it?” Eslingen asked.

  Rathe crumpled the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “Fourie wants me. And Trijn, I suppose, she says I’m to come to Dreams first.” He paused. “I have to go.”

  Eslingen nodded, swallowing the obvious question. Whatever the Surintendant of Points wanted, it was unlikely to be good. “I’ll talk to Mattaes. And Steen, if I can find him.”

  “If he pulls me off this,” Rathe began, and stopped again, shaking his head.

  “Don’t borrow trouble,” Eslingen said, and pushed him gently toward the door.

  CHAPTER 5

  Rathe managed to wave down another low-flyer by the University gates, leaned forward in his seat as though he could urge the two-wheeled carriage faster through the traffic that clogged the Queen’s Bridge. By the time they reached Point of Dreams, the clocks had struck half past ten, and Trijn was pacing the main room, skirts swirling around her ankles.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “At the deadhouse,” Rathe answered. “I had the flyer wait.”

  “Good.” She looked him over, shaking her head. “By the Scales, don’t you have a better coat?”

  “Not here,” Rathe said, though a part of him wished there were time to fetch his best from his lodgings. “How much of a hurry is he in, Chief?”

  “Enough of one to say we should be there before noon.” Trijn was at least respectable in a plain green skirt and bodice, the latter fastened to her chin with bright brass buttons. “What have you been up to, Rathe?”

  Rathe spread his hands. “Nothing that I know of. I hoped you could tell me.”

  “Apparently we’re both to be surpris
ed,” Trijn said, and led the way to the waiting flyer.

  They arrived at the Tour de la Cite in good time, a few minutes before eleven by the clock in the tower opposite. Like many of the properties taken over by the Points, it had once been part of the city’s defenses—one of the gatehouses, when the walls had enclosed a much smaller city—and the heavy stone walls and narrow windows gave it a brooding, brutal look. The low-flyer clattered to a stop in its shadow; Trijn paid it off, and they climbed the broad steps in silence. The inner corridors held a chill damp, despite the lamps and the red-coated clerks of the judiciary who scurried back and forth, and Rathe was glad when they reached the old South Tower, where the Surintendant of Points kept his office.

  They were expected—late, in the carefully unspoken opinion of the austere woman who acted as the surintendant’s secretary, who led them to a half-open door. “Chief Trijn and Adjunct Point Rathe, sir.”

  “Enter.”

  Rathe suppressed the desire to roll his eyes, and followed Trijn into the room. It was larger than most work spaces, with two long windows overlooking the square, and smelled strongly of beeswax and lamp oil. Lamps were burning in brackets on either side of the windows, throwing extra light on the neat piles of paper that covered the surintendant’s table. Rainart Fourie himself sat squarely between the windows, his face in shadow; a plain falling collar and undecorated cuffs gleamed white against the unrelieved jet of his narrow coat. His hair was cropped close to his scalp as well, adding to the impression of austerity, but Rathe suspected the choice had more to do with vanity: longer hair would sit ill with that high forehead and the long and melancholy face.

  “I’m glad to see you.” Fourie’s tone gave no such indication, but Trijn nodded anyway.

  “We came as soon as we could. I had to send for Rathe, he was working.”

  “So you said.” Fourie moved a slip of paper—a note from Trijn, Rathe guessed—from one side of the table to the other. “At the deadhouse, Adjunct Point?”

  “Yes.” Rathe had learned long ago that it was better not to volunteer anything; let the surintendant say what he wanted first, and answer accordingly.

  “The matter of the tea captain, bes’Anthe.”

  “Yes,” Rathe said again.

  “Sighs has called a point on one of our residents,” Trijn said. “We’ve been asked to act—and so has the City Guard.”

  A flush of color rose on Fourie’s thin cheeks, but he said only, “So I’ve been informed.” He waved to the chairs that stood ready, straight-backed hard wood. “Be seated.”

  Rathe risked a glance at Trijn at that, but she looked just as wary as she settled herself, spreading her skirts neatly over her knees.

  “You will have heard the other news from Point of Sighs,” Fourie said. “About their senior adjunct.”

  Rathe glanced at Trijn again, who started to shrug, and then thought better of it. “That Edild Dammar was beaten and stabbed and thrown in the Sier? A story like that travels, sir.”

  “And you were there, Rathe, when the pontoises brought him ashore.” Fourie steepled his fingers.

  “Purely by happenstance,” Rathe said, and knew he sounded guilty. “I wanted to talk to the cap’pontoise about another matter.”

  Fourie reached for another sheet of paper. “The pontoises’ report was somewhere terse. Tell me what you observed.”

  “I saw the boat come in, and the pontoises carry him ashore,” Rathe answered. “Cambrai asked me to take a look at him—I assume he’d recognized him, but it took me a minute. If I had to say, I’d guess Dammar had been in a fight. One he lost.” He went through the rest of what he’d seen, knowing that he wasn’t adding much to the information Cambrai had already shared, and he was unsurprised when Fourie shook his head.

  “Most unsatisfactory. Still, I trust we’ll be able to correct that.” He glanced at Trijn. “There is other news from Point of Sighs, I’m afraid. Chief Point Astarac—you knew she was increasing?”

  Trijn’s eyes widened. “She’s a bit old for that, surely.” She composed herself. “Sorry, sir. No, I didn’t know.”

  “She and her eldest daughter are both with child, so I’ve just been told, and the daughter has been ill with it for a couple of months now. Astarac is further along, and this morning her remaining adjunct sends to me to say that Astarac had a fit in the night and has been taken to the Maternité.” He reached for another slip of paper, this one torn on an odd angle. “Astarac says she’ll be back to work as soon as possible, but I doubt the Demeans will release her any time soon.”

  Trijn straightened. “If you’re planning to take my adjunct—”

  Fourie lifted one finger. “Temporarily only. And you have a full complement, do you not?”

  “Yes, but—” Trijn took a breath, visibly forcing down annoyance. “Sir, Rathe is my right hand, not to mention that he’s in the middle of a dozen things that require a certain expertise. I can’t spare him.”

  Fourie tapped his fingertips against one another. “And I dislike the notion that someone would feel free to attack one of my people. However questionable I may find Dammar’s behavior, he remains one of us. I want someone I can trust to investigate the matter without fear or favor.”

  “You think someone at Sighs did it,” Rathe said.

  “That thought has crossed my mind. I’m aware of Dammar’s reputation, and I’ve heard the talk of more extortion than usual on the docks. The situation is volatile enough that I don’t want to give this business to anyone who remains at Sighs—and the truth of the matter is, the junior adjunct has only been in the place a year. Not quite that, in fact. I would want to send someone else to take Dammar’s place regardless.”

  Trijn swore under her breath.

  “In that case,” Rathe said, “there’s no reason for me not to pursue the question of bes’Anthe’s death.”

  “I’d prefer for you to concentrate on Dammar,” Fourie said. “Let the rest of Sighs deal with bes’Anthe, or turn it over to the Guard, if you think that would be best.”

  I don’t have a choice, do I? Rathe swallowed the words, and looked at Trijn. “I can hand over my books to Auzeri, we’ve been working hand-in-glove on most of it anyway.”

  “All right.” Trijn glared at the surintendant. “But I don’t have to like it, sir.”

  “That’s not required.” Fourie reached for a silver bell that stood on his desk. He shook it once, the piercing jangle enough to cut through conversation outside, and a moment later the secretary peered in the door.

  “Show in Adjunct Point Sebern, please.”

  “At once,” the secretary answered, closing the door again behind her. Rathe glanced again at Trijn, saw her visibly reconsider another protest. The door opened, this time wide enough to admit a stocky woman in a neat blue-gray suit. Winter-sea blue, the color was called, Rathe remembered, and it made the most of a sallow complexion. Her leather jerkin hung open over skirt and bodice, a badge of office rather than protection, but the truncheon at her belt was as large and potentially effective as his own. She might be his own age, or perhaps a few years younger, given that she was still the junior adjunct—or she might be a year or two older, and risen more slowly in a more crowded and prosperous station even than Dreams.

  “Adjunct Point Sebern, this is Adjunct Point Rathe,” Fourie said

  Sebern gave a jerky nod. “I know his reputation.”

  “Then you won’t find it a surprise that I’m assigning him to Point of Sighs—temporarily, of course,” Fourie added, lifting a hand to forestall complaint. “Until either Chief Astarac or Adjunct Point Dammar can return to duty.”

  Sebern opened her mouth, closed it, took a breath and tried again. “With all respect, Surintendant, we can manage Sighs without outside help. Aside from the chief and Dammar, we’re at full strength.”

  “I’d prefer to have another senior person in the station.” Fourie’s gaze narrowed. “And I’m sure you’re not telling me that you don’t want someone from another sta
tion seeing your books.”

  Sebern paled, though from the set of her mouth it was hard to tell if the driving emotion was fear or fury. “If you insist, sir. I just don’t want to take Adjunct Point Rathe away from his usual duties.”

  “I think we have enough people to manage,” Trijn said. She looked at Rathe. “I’ll want you to turn your books over to Auzeri before you make the move, though.”

  Rathe nodded. This wasn’t the sort of job anyone liked, coming into a station as a resented stranger, and his reputation ran against Sighs’ in ways that would only make it more difficult. On the other hand, it was at least a chance to examine Dammar more closely, and to find out what the station already knew about bes’Anthe’s death. But how it would intersect with Eslingen and the Guard, or the pontoises…. There was no way to tell. Fourie smiled benevolently, as though he were completely unaware of the tension.

  “Excellent. That’s settled, then. Rathe, I’d like regular reports, please. And—that will be all, I think. Good day.”

  It was clear that no further objections would be permitted. They mumbled their answers, and backed awkwardly from the workroom, then stood staring unhappily at each other in the antechamber until Trijn shook her head.

  “Right. Well, we’ll have to live with this. Rathe, I want you to go over your book with Auzeri.”

  “I’d like to go to Sighs first,” Rathe said, with enough emphasis that Trijn blinked and nodded. He looked at Sebern. “We might as well get it done.”

  Sebern nodded, though she didn’t look pleased. “If that’s how you want it.”

  “Are you telling me there’s a better way?” Rathe tried a wry smile, and to his surprise one corner of her mouth curved up in answer.

  “Not that I can think of.”

  Rathe caught Trijn’s sleeve as she turned away. “I’ll be back before the night watch, Chief,” he said, and wished it didn’t feel as though he were telling her when to send rescue.