And this was why you kept your books up-to-date, and worried more about putting down information than about how neatly it was phrased. Except, of course, if Dammar was taking unreasonable fees, and not keeping his word, careful notes would only betray him. “I’ll want to see the daybooks tomorrow,” he said, “and I’ll keep these for a while. Maybe something will stand out once I’ve been here longer.”
“Right, Adjunct.” Ormere pushed herself to her feet, accepting the dismissal. “But if I were you, sir, I’d look long and hard at the pontoises. They’re nothing but trouble on the docks, and have been ever since they had to give way to us.”
He spent the rest of the afternoon reading the last six months’ entries in Dammar’s books, making notes on cases that might provoke an attack. As Ormere had said, there were few of them: Dammar seemed to spend most of his time on complaints from the local merchants, complaints that, however petty on the face of it, had the chance of bringing solid fees. If he was fee’d for even half the cases that made it to his book, Rathe thought, he’d come close to tripling his official salary. It was probably worth taking a look at how well he and any family lived.
Except, of course, that he was supposed to be finding the person who’d knifed Dammar, not investigating whether he took fees and stayed bought. And neither Dammar’s records nor the station’s daybooks offered much to steer him in the right direction. He looked at his list—half a dozen names, none of them particularly likely—then picked up the last daybook and headed down the stairs.
As he’d hoped, the hall was quiet, most of the points out on the last patrol before the day-sun set, and the woman Bellin was sitting behind the one occupied table. Rathe slid the book over to her, and she took it with a not unfriendly nod.
“Done with it, then, Adjunct?”
“Yes, thanks. You’re the senior on the day-watch?” It was a guess, but he’d been fairly sure of it, finding her in charge when the others were out.
She nodded, seeming equally unsurprised at the question. She was a stocky woman, strongly muscled, with a stiffly upright posture that spoke of the sort of heavily-boned stays that would turn a knife. “Any luck?”
Rathe shrugged. “I’ve some questions to ask. Is there anyone you’d point to?”
“It’s docker business,” Bellin said, “and that means the pontoises. I know you don’t want to hear it, being friends with them and all, but they’re still fighting over our rights. Easy enough for something to get out of hand.”
“I’ve worked with the pontoises, yes,” Rathe said, keeping his voice mild with an effort. “But I’m a pointsman, first and always. If any of them are responsible, I’ll be down on them like a ton of bricks.” And so would Cambrai, but he knew better than to make that argument. “What makes you say it’s docker business?”
“There’s always more trouble on the docks than anywhere else in Sighs.” Bellin reached for the daybook, set it carefully back in its case with the others. “It’s the nature of the beast, and also no surprise this year, with I’d say a quarter of the ships left trapped in the Silklands. Well, maybe not so many, a number have come straggling in or put to port south of here, but it’s cost any number of families a goodly part of the winter trade, the tea merchants in particular. They were all waiting for that last shipment, the Old Year teas and the last thinnings, and half of it never got here, and the other half isn’t the best of the crop.” She shot Rathe a sudden glance. “All that’s background, you understand.”
Rathe nodded.
“So tempers are already running high, and money’s short, and we’re seeing more thieving along the warehouse rows. There’s trouble in the taverns. When we make our patrols, we see more black eyes and torn coats and bloody knuckles—but not a one of them comes to us with a complaint. Ask, and they walked into a door or tripped down a ladder, got caught by a stray rope. Something’s brewing, and if they won’t come to us, it must be the pontoises’ fault.”
“You’d expect them to come to you if there were problems, then?” Rathe did his best to keep his tone merely curious.
“Why not? They’re sensible folk, they know where their bread’s baked. And most of us don’t ask so much in fees, not from poor folk like them.”
“Good of you,” Rathe said, in spite of himself, but Bellin didn’t seem to hear the irony.
“It’s the pontoises, Adjunct, I’m sure of it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rathe said. “In the meantime, I’m out for the day. Ormere knows my lodgings if I’m needed overnight, the directions are in the book, and otherwise I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Very well, Adjunct,” Bellin answered, and Rathe turned away.
The clouds were building again, promising more rain, and he quickened his step as he headed toward Point of Dreams. The day-sun was below the housetops, throwing the streets into shadow; occasionally a cross street ran straight enough toward the west to show a glimpse of the molten sky as the sun hung between the clouds and the horizon. The air tasted of rain and river mud.
The streets emptied as he made his way across Sighs, shops and workshops already closed for the night, shutters locked tight across the ground floor windows. He was almost back to Point of Dreams, though, where the taverns and theaters would be just opening up for business, and something prickled at the back of his neck, urging him to hurry. The quickest way led down Redillon’s Row, lined with little shops and the occasional copper merchant’s house; they were all closed, shutters barred and doors shut, but the last of setting sun spilled into the passage, casting long shadows. Rathe was halfway down before he thought he heard footsteps on the cobbles behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, but the sun-dazzle filled his eyes; nothing moved, and he heard nothing more, but he quickened his pace again. The sun slipped below the horizon, the light fading rapidly from the cloud-streaked sky, and he risked another look. The street seemed empty, but he thought he caught a movement just at the mouth of one of the little alleys between the shops. It was not repeated, and he turned back, only to hear the scrape of stone on stone.
And still the street was empty. He laid a hand on the truncheon at his belt. The heavy metal cap, the queen’s seal above a triple band, was a potent weapon, but if his follower carried a knife, and was willing to use it, as Dammar’s attacker had been…. He’d faced knives before with just the truncheon, and hadn’t particularly enjoyed it. The noise was not repeated, nor did anything move in the deepening shadows. It might, he thought, have come from someone’s garden, and struck badly against his stretched nerves. Better to keep moving, get to the safe bustle of Dreams as soon as possible. He lengthened his stride, wishing Eslingen were there, and kept his hand on the butt of the truncheon.
The Row ended in one of the smaller squares, this one centered on a respectable tavern, its doors open to the night and the usual handful of patrons standing to chat on the threshold. Rathe allowed himself a sigh of relief. No one would be fool enough to attack him under the eyes of three of Dreams’ most prosperous printers; they might not help, but they would certainly bear witness against any attacker, and even run for help if he needed it. And maybe it had been nothing after all: he’d seen nothing, and heard nothing that couldn’t carry another explanation, but he couldn’t quite rid himself of the feeling that he had been followed.
He reached the station’s gate as the clock struck half past and swallowed a groan at the thought of the work he had still to do. There were his books to update and hand over, and whatever else Trijn needed from him—probably he should send a runner to warn Eslingen that he was going to be late.
“Adjunct Point!”
He turned to see a boy in the pontoises’ long-tailed cap, panting as he dragged to a halt.
“Adjunct Point! The cap’ wants to see you, soon as may be.”
“Is it an emergency?” Rathe asked.
The runner hesitated. “No, sir, but he’d like to talk to you tonight. He’s at the Cockerel. He says, sir, he’ll buy you dinner this time.�
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The Cockerel was one of the smaller taverns, frequented by shopkeepers and craftsmen—a place, Rathe thought, where he might talk to Cambrai unobserved. “Tell the cap’ I’ll be there within the hour,” he said, and pushed through the gate before the boy could protest.
To his relief, there was less to do than he had feared. It didn’t take long to update his books and hand them over to Auzeri, who did her best to contain her glee at the temporary promotion. Trijn had left for the day, and left no messages: all to the good, Rathe thought, surveying his workroom. There were things he could bring with him, things he wanted—he had the place arranged exactly to his liking, from the locked chests for his books to the chair and the heavy teapot. But if he was going to bring one thing, he’d want to bring them all, and the position at Sighs was emphatically temporary. It would only make things worse if he looked as though he was settling in.
He signed out with the night-watch, and made his way back through the streets. It was raining again, not hard, and he hoped Eslingen had made it home before it started. But, no, there he was, just turning away from one of the apple-men. Rathe lifted a hand, and Eslingen waved in turn, stepping away from the shopfronts just as a wagon rumbled past. One wheel hit a puddle, sending a sheet of water cascading over boots and breeches. Eslingen swore, and Rathe hurried across the street to join him.
“Are you—?”
“Wet.” Eslingen scowled as water dripped from the apple he still clutched in one hand. He glared at it, but dried it and tucked it into his pocket. “Even wetter than I was before.”
“I didn’t think I’d see you. I’m supposed to meet Cambrai at the Cockerel. You could join us?”
Eslingen shook his head. “I’m no use to anyone like this. I’m going to go home and sit by the stove until the stars change.”
Rathe ventured to pat his shoulder, and Eslingen scowled again, but didn’t move away. “I’ll bring you something.”
“It doesn’t—” Eslingen began, then stopped. “That would be kind.”
“Go get dry,” Rathe said, and Eslingen turned away.
Rathe watched him go, the skirts of his coat dragging, back stiff with irritation, then made himself turn toward the Cockerel. To his surprise, Cambrai was sitting on one of the benches beneath the overhanging roof, pipe in hand and the runner still at his side. He rose at Rathe’s approach, and waved his pipe in a general greeting.
“Was that Eslingen? I hope his coat’s not spoiled.”
“His stars are bad for water,” Rathe said, and saw the mockery in Cambrai’s face shift to sympathy.
“Ah. It’s an ill time for that, to be sure.”
“Yes,” Rathe said, repressively.
Cambrai shrugged. “Well, the man’s a clothes horse. But no harm in it.” He tossed the runner a coin that glinted silver in the lamplight. “All right, Gilly, be off with you.”
“What did you want?” Rathe asked, as the boy darted away.
“A word with you away from both our stations. Seems to me this will serve.”
The main room was dark and crowded, especially by the enormous fireplace that filled most of the right-hand wall. Rathe caught Cambrai’s sleeve and towed him to the left, where the crowd thinned, fetching up at last at an empty table against the wall. No one was currently in earshot, and if they kept their voices down, even the neighboring tables would be hard pressed to hear.
Cambrai sat down. “I thought we could get a room….”
“That would definitely cause talk,” Rathe said with a smirk. “And Moricia overcharges for them.”
Cambrai leaned back, balancing his stool on two legs, and one of the waiters came slouching over, wiping his hands on his apron. They each ordered a pint of spiced wine, and waited in silence until the water returned with the steaming mugs. Rathe took a sip, grateful for the heat, and rested his elbows on the table.
“I’d like to talk to Dammar.” Cambrai let his stool fall with a thump.
“In Astree’s name, why?” Rathe tipped his head to one side. “Besides, that’s Sighs’ business.”
“But we pulled him out of the river. So I see that makes him mine.”
“He was knifed on shore, on the bridge or before, and he’s Adjunct at Sighs.”
“Sighs won’t do a damn thing to help him,” Cambrai said. “The folk there don’t love him any better than you do.”
“That’s not what they say.”
Cambrai snorted. “They have to, don’t they? He’s taken too much coin. I’d wager he’s involved with whatever gang is pressing for fees on the docks now.”
“Would you, now.” Rathe took another sip of his wine. “That’s a serious charge.”
“I’m a serious man.”
“Share the proof, then. He’s still one of ours, I can’t call a point without something solid.”
“If I had that….” Cambrai’s shoulders slumped. “I’ve only whispers—a woman who says she doesn’t need our help after all, now that Dammar’s laid up, a couple of captains who say they were told the points were in the dockers’ pockets. But the entire waterfront is breathing easier at the moment, and that’s a fact.”
“But not one you can call a point on,” Rathe said.
“I want to talk to him. Ask what happened, see if he’ll put a name or a face to whoever attacked him. No one’s gotten his story yet, have they?”
Rathe shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“Well, there you have it.” Cambrai spread his hands. “Let me talk to him, and I’ll gladly share whatever he says.”
Rathe rested his shoulders against the wall. “I can’t just let you walk into his house and question him. Most of Sighs blames the pontoises for everything that’s going wrong on the docks.”
“Only to cover up what they’re doing.”
“I’m acting senior at Sighs now—”
Cambrai’s eyebrows rose, but he waved for Rathe to continue.
“Make a formal request, at Sighs, on the books, and I’ll come with you. That’ll get you what you want…what we both want.”
“You can’t just let me ask a few simple questions?”
“Your questions aren’t ever simple. Besides, there will be a doctor there, and whatever family he has. You’ll do better if I’m with you.”
Cambrai sighed. “All right. I’ll make a proper request, seven seals and all. But I’m warning you, Nico, you need to watch your back. Someone at Sighs is up to their neck in this mess.”
Rathe thought of the footsteps he might have heard, tracking him down the emptiest part of his route, and couldn’t suppress a shiver. It wasn’t at all impossible, was in fact frighteningly plausible if the pontoises weren’t involved…. He shoved the tangle aside, knowing he didn’t have enough facts to deal with it now.
“Send me the request,” he said, and Cambrai pushed himself to his feet.
“This had better work.”
CHAPTER 6
Eslingen was drier than he’d been in days and knew he ought to feel content, but instead he felt…hollow, as though the water had worn him away like old stone. The stars were against him, he told himself for what seemed like the hundredth time, and this would pass. He moved the stand that held his coat closer to the stove, hoping that it would dry well enough that he could brush the worst of the mud from the skirts. He had already cleaned his boots, and hung stockings and breeches to dry, stood now in nightshirt and dressing gown, holding back his sleeve as he fed the fire. He had been too out of sorts to stop for food, but there was still most of a loaf of bread and a crock of butter, and he cut slices for toast, spearing each one on the long fork to hold them to the flames. Sunflower came to sit at his feet, not quite begging, but clearly willing to dispose of anything remotely edible that should happen to fall, and Eslingen fed him bits of the crusts before he finally closed and latched the stove’s door.
He reached for the pile of papers he had taken from his coat’s cuffs. Most were broadsheets, purchased not quite at random in Temple Fa
ir as he’d passed back and forth to the Guard’s compound, but among them was a folded quarter-sheet addressed to him in an awkward scrawl. Young Steen had agreed to meet, though he’d specified a chophouse near the Exemption Docks and hadn’t signed his name. For a moment, Eslingen wondered if it might be a trap, but put the thought firmly aside. The easiest way to be rid of him was simply to ignore his requests; an attack would bring down the attention of the Guard, and of Coindarel. And of Rathe: he wouldn’t let it sit, either, and not just because it was bad for the law. No, Eslingen thought, he’d keep the appointment and see what Steen had to say, and stop by the Staenka house on the way back. He’d spoken to Mattaes that afternoon, and gotten nothing more than a repetition of the boy’s previous story. Redel, though, had made an appearance at the end of the conversation, looking as though she wanted to say more, but her sister had called her away before Eslingen could find an excuse. And, he admitted, he was curious about how de Vian’s noble sister fitted in with such a determinedly mercantile family.
He reached for the apple he had bought just before he’d run into Rathe, and unfolded the broadsheets with his free hand, not really seeing the smudged woodcuts. He was a little sorry he hadn’t gone to meet the cap’pontoise with Rathe—if anyone could shed light on this extortion plot, it would surely be the river’s keepers—but the thought of sitting there, damp and steaming and probably smelling of the street mud, while Cambrai smiled and joked and displayed strong corded muscles and golden hair…. And that was pure vanity, he thought, with a rueful laugh. But no one showed to advantage when their stars were in their detriment, and he and Rathe were still new enough that he preferred to look his best.
He reached for the first broadsheet, topped with a woodcut of something that seemed to be meant for a mermaid. Only the mermaids he had read about were supposed to be beautiful, or at least seductive; this one had drooping breasts and weed-like hair and her crooked hands were tipped with alarmingly large claws. She had fangs, too, in the top and bottom of her mouth: not at all the sort of creature one would follow in bemused fascination. The headline read The Masculine Tribute, or, An Inquiry into Ancient Rites Relevant to Recent Sightings Along the Sier. The verse was tortured at best, but claimed to tell the tale of the Riverdeme, the river spirit Rathe had said was associated with the dogfish, who had demanded a tribute of nubile young men before the sages of the University had trapped her, destroying her power. Still, the broadsheet concluded,
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