Point of Sighs

by Melissa Scott

  “What is all of this?” the boy asked, as they stopped to let a string of laden carts cross their path, the oxen leaning heavily into the yokes.

  “If your ship goes upriver past the Customs House, you have to pay the Queen’s fees,” Eslingen answered. “If you have letters of exemption, or if your cargo is going somewhere outside the city—if you don’t have to pay those fees for some reason—you dock here, not in the city.”

  “Or if you’re under contract to one of the League cities?” De Vian nodded to the house nearer them, which bore Lahyemeis’s hunting horn on a shield in the center of its main door.

  “That’s where it gets complicated,” Eslingen answered. “Yes, sometimes, but sometimes not. Sometimes it’s the fees you pay, and sometimes it’s who signed the letter of marque—and mostly it’s not our business.” Smuggling, petty and great, was Astreiant’s second-favorite pastime, after the broadsheets and just ahead of the theaters: it would take more than all the points and pontoises combined to do more than cut into the profits. Rathe argued that the laws needed to change first, and then enforcement, but that was Rathe for you. The last of the carts lumbered past, and he shook himself back to the matter at hand. “Let’s go.”

  The docks themselves were crowded, ships of every size jammed against the wharfs, spars and lines seeming constantly on the verge of tangling hopelessly and bringing the whole structure down. There didn’t seem to be a single empty mooring, just ship after ship, nearly every one with a swarm of dockers hauling cargo. The air smelled of mud and tar and new-cut timber; at the end of the longest wharf, a streak of scarlet cut the air, the narrow pennant unfurling from a mast-top, and sails blossomed from the middle spars. They swelled, catching the scant breeze, and the ship began to pull out into the river, whistles shrilling signals as she turned south toward the sea. She wouldn’t be going far this time of year, Eslingen thought, probably no further than the towns at the river’s mouth, where it was cheaper to refit and wait out the season.

  He made himself look away from the river, scanning the buildings that faced the docks: brick and timber, mostly, not the solid stone of older Astreiant, but sturdy enough. Most of them seemed to be factors’ houses or warehouses, or the occasional chandler; there was a tavern as well, with a bright bush to proclaim it sold Leaguer beer as well as Chenedolle’s wine, and a fiddler was perched on a barrel outside the door, scraping a tune for his dog to dance to. The dog looked a bit like a basket terrier—maybe its grandam had been purebred. Eslingen tossed a demming in the man’s hat as they passed.

  The chophouse should be a little further on, down the next side street—and yes, there it was, a low building set back from the others along the street, a carved and painted wooden bull hanging above the doorway. The yard was empty except for a line of benches pulled under the broad eaves; in the summer, Eslingen guessed, there would be tables outside as well, but it was too late in the year for that. A woman leaned against the open door, fanning her face with her apron, and Eslingen caught the unmistakable scent of roasting meat.

  “Captain, I—if we’re going to eat here…I haven’t any money. Not for this.”

  “If we eat, I’ll pay. Assuming we’re not too early,” he added, to the woman at the door, who straightened with a smile.

  “Ready just now, sir.”

  Eslingen nodded, and she ducked into the main room. He followed, pleased to see that it wasn’t empty, and saw a hand raised in the back corner. Someone had set a screen to conceal a pair of rear tables—that seemed to be the fashion here, rather than private rooms—and he could just recognize Young Steen peeping around its edge.

  “This way,” he said, to de Vian, and moved to join the sailor.

  To his surprise, Jesine Hardelet was waiting behind the screen, bodice loosely laced over a swelling belly, and a definite look of annoyance on her face. “Who’s the boy?”

  “My runner,” Eslingen answered, before de Vian could speak. “Yours isn’t the only business I have today.”

  “That wasn’t in the bargain,” Young Steen said, his face setting in an obstinate scowl.

  Eslingen sighed, recognizing an impasse, and reached for his purse. “Balfort. Buy yourself something decent and go sit by the fire until we’re done.” He handed over a couple of seillings, trying not to think about his dwindling funds, and de Vian turned away, trying to hide his disappointment. Eslingen looked at the others. “Satisfied?”

  Hardelet gave a slow nod. Increasing women were supposed to bloom with health, but she looked worn, her skin pasty, with dark circles under her eyes. “I’m already taking chances.”

  Eslingen chose a stool where he could see past the edge of the screen and seated himself. “But it was you who wanted to see me.”

  Before the woman could answer, a waiter scurried over. “Pardon, dame, masters, but the roast is ready. May I carve a chop or two for you all?”

  Nothing would be more suspicious than not ordering. Eslingen saw the same knowledge on the others’ faces, and schooled himself to patience. They placed their orders—loin chops, seared with butter, with mushrooms and fried parsnips and a jug of cider—and Eslingen glanced sideways to see de Vian placing his own order. There were a few more people in the main room now, another group just vanishing behind their screen and a few more sitting by ones and twos across the room, and he turned his attention back to the others. The sound of a fiddle came from the yard, as though the fiddler moved on to a new stand.

  “We’ve had more trouble,” Young Steen said bluntly. “The motherless bastards doubled my fees for unloading—above and beyond what they’d asked the first time, and had the brass balls to tell me it was for talking out of turn.”

  “And when I complained,” Hardelet said, “my mother had a note that said she was likely to lose a grandchild that way. My mother owns the larger share in the Soueraigne, you understand.”

  Eslingen nodded. “Who did you complain to, dame? The dockers?”

  “The owners’ consortium,” Hardelet answered. “You understand, we’re not a guild—”

  By which she meant they had none of the backing of the city’s regents. Eslingen nodded again.

  “But we do combine our voices in circumstances like this. Mother’s a senior member, we’ve supported them for years.” Hardelet’s expression was bleak. “But it doesn’t seem there’s a damn thing they can do.”

  The waiter returned then, and they all leaned back while he placed the steaming plates and the jug and the pots of mustard. When he was out of earshot, Young Steen said, “Usually the owners manage to get some kind of agreement on the dockers’ fees. And on the fees to Point of Sighs, and the dock rates, for that matter. If you’re a consortium ship, you get a better deal. But not this year.”

  “Do you know what the consortium did with your complaint?” Eslingen asked.

  “Not for certain,” Hardelet said. “Usually, one of our women goes to talk to the head of the dockers, or her representative, so I assume that’s what happened this time. And usually we make some kind of bargain. But this time….”

  “This time they went to your mother and threatened you and the child,” Eslingen said.

  “Just so.” Hardelet nodded.

  “We’re going downriver,” Steen said. “We paid, the Soueraigne’s unloaded and at dock here, outside the city, and when we’re done with you, we’re going south to Ostolas and spend the winter there.”

  “And do you plan to have the child there, dame?”

  Hardelet’s mouth tightened. “We’ll see.”

  Eslingen felt his eyebrows rise in spite of himself. If the child were born outside the city bounds, Hardelet couldn’t claim residency for her—oh, she was of a good family, merchants resident of long standing, it would almost certainly be possible to have the child added to the city rolls, but it was a risk few women would run if they had other options. “Your idea, or your mother’s?”

  “Mine,” Steen said. “But they all agreed.”

  Hardelet nodded a
gain: more proof, Eslingen thought, that they’re taking this threat in earnest. Not that I needed it. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, something Steen had said at the beginning, and he carved himself a bite of his chop, trying to pry loose the question. “Ah. Steen, you said the dockers doubled your fees for—talking out of turn, was it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And this was before Dame Hardelet spoke to the other owners?”

  “That was what she was talking to them about.”

  “You spoke to me, and I spoke to Rathe, and that’s as far as your name went,” Eslingen said.

  “So you say,” Hardelet said, but without conviction.

  “Unless you spoke to someone else,” Eslingen went on, and she shook her head.

  “I didn’t want him to talk to you, Captain.”

  “I’m not a fool,” Steen said. “I know what’s at risk. But—”

  Eslingen nodded. “How? Were you that closely watched? Is there someone on your ship—forgive me—who could be bribed to watch you?”

  “It’s a good question,” Hardelet said, her anger fading again. “And I don’t have an answer.”

  “It’s why I want us to winter in Ostolas,” Steen said, quietly. “I want us out of it. But there is one thing more I can tell you—”

  He broke off as the fiddler stopped with a discordant shriek, and something struck the chophouse door. Eslingen thrust himself to his feet as three men shoved past the expostulating waiter, clubs as solid as a pointsman’s truncheon ready in hand. There was a fourth man at the door, holding it open and watching the street, and the fiddler and his dog had fled. Hardelet and Steen were on their feet as well, Steen desperately shoving himself in front of her, and Eslingen drew his knife.

  “Here, now, we don’t want trouble—”

  The leader swung at him and he ducked left, the club hissing past his shoulder. One of the others slammed the screen to the ground, and someone screamed from the kitchen, fear and fury mingled. Hardelet put her hands under the edge of the table and heaved, flinging it up into the face of the third man, food and drink and dishes shattering, then fell back against the wall, grimacing, as Steen swung a stool at the next man. Eslingen swore, and stepped inside the leader’s swing, blocking his arm with his free hand and stabbing for the shoulder. The blade skidded on hard-cured leather, then caught and ripped cloth and flesh down the fat of his biceps. The leader swore, shortening his grip, and struck for the kidneys with the butt of the club. Eslingen felt the shift just in time, caught it instead on his arm and ribs—painful enough to bring his breath short, but not crippling. He turned into the swing, pulling the man away from Hardelet, and shoved him hard so that he fell backward over an upturned stool. Eslingen kicked him below the ribs—there wasn’t time to choose a better blow—and turned to catch the closer of the remaining attackers by the collar of his coat. He hauled him back, but the man rounded on him, swinging his club, and it was Eslingen’s turn to leap back out of the way.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the chophouse’s other patrons were on their feet, not yet ready to interfere, and then a heavy-set man lunged out of the kitchen flourishing an iron spit, the waiters behind him. The leader of the attackers saw them, and the man at the door put two fingers to his lips and whistled sharply. The leader swore, and shoved Steen sideways so that he caromed into Hardelet, nearly knocking her to the ground. The man Eslingen had kicked staggered to his feet and took off for the door, the others quickly overtaking him. Eslingen started after them, but pulled up, flinching, as the bruised ribs caught him. De Vian had disappeared, and he looked around sharply.

  “Your boy went chasing them,” one of the kitchen-men said. “Not that he’s like to catch them.”

  I hope not, Eslingen thought, but he knew he needed to finish with Hardelet. He’d have to trust that de Vian had sense enough not to try to stop them on his own.

  “Dame!” That was the woman he’d seen when they arrived, hurrying to help Steen ease Hardelet down onto a chair. “Are you all right? The child?”

  “I’m well.” Hardelet cradled her belly, rocking slowly back and forth. A bruise was blooming on her cheek as though someone had struck her. “We’re well. We’re well.”

  Steen knelt to wrap his arms around her, tears of relief starting from his eyes. “Jesi….”

  “Do you want the points?” the chophouse woman asked. “Shouldn’t be allowed, attacking honest women over nothing at all—”

  “No points,” Steen said, and the woman frowned, looking past him at Hardelet.

  “Better have them in, dame, we’ll all bear witness.”

  “We’re leaving Astreiant today,” Hardelet said slowly. “I’d rather not waste the time.”

  “I could speak to the points for you,” Eslingen said, and stretched his back again. ”If you’re willing.”

  “We’ll be gone before the tide turns,” Steen said, grimly. “Do as you please, I don’t care.”

  “Steen.” Hardelet held out her hands, and reluctantly he steadied her to her feet. “Dame, I’m main sorry for this trouble, I’d no thought this would happen. I hope you’ll let me make at least monetary amends.” She reached under her skirts for her purse, and the chophouse woman’s eyes widened as she brought out half a silver pillar.

  “That’s very proper of you, dame,” the chophouse woman said, and the coin disappeared beneath her skirts. “Will you have my man walk you to your ship? And our Emael, too. I don’t doubt your men are strong enough, but there’s safety in numbers.”

  Hardelet shifted her shoulders as though she was still feeling out her body, then nodded. “I’d take that kindly, especially since I think Captain vaan Esling has errands of his own to see to.”

  “Duly dismissed,” Eslingen said, lightly, and sketched a bow that sent a jolt of pain across his lower back.

  “We’ve given you all there is to give,” Steen said, his voice grim, but Hardelet caught his sleeve.

  “A name,” she said, leaning close enough that it was unlikely anyone else could hear. “The man running the dockers. Jurien Trys.”

  It meant nothing to Eslingen, but Rathe was bound to know it. He nodded, committing it to memory, and let Steen draw her away. The men from the chophouse joined them, flanking them protectively, and they left together. Eslingen straightened carefully, feeling more bruises on his arms and shoulders, and slid his knife back into its sheath.

  “Your boy ran off after them,” the chophouse woman said. It was not quite an accusation, and Eslingen bit back a sigh.

  “I’m with the City Guard, dame. I’ll have a word with the points once I find my runner.”

  She looked doubtful at that, but then her gaze shifted. “And there he is coming back.”

  “Good.” Eslingen turned just in time to see de Vian duck through the door, and moved to meet him.

  “I’m sorry, Captain.” De Vian was painfully out of breath. “They got away…they went down into the docks and it was crowded and I couldn’t see which way they went.”

  “It’s all right,” Eslingen said. “It was a good try.”

  “Are you all right? Is the lady?”

  “Yes, we’re both fine.” Eslingen pressed a cautious hand to his side, and decided he was only exaggerating a little bit. “Come on. We’ve still got things to do.”

  The cap’pontoise arrived promptly as the clock struck the last quarter, escorted by Saffroy and a pair of burly young pontoises who had the grace to wait outside the station’s hall. Rathe collected Ormere and a runner, ignoring Bellin’s scowl, and together they walked west along Bonfortune’s Walk and then turned deeper into Point of Sighs. Dammar lived in lodgings, according to Ormere, but had been taken to his sister’s house where he could be better nursed. The sister was a pewter-smith, and her house was also her workshop, the shutters down to form a counter and the room behind it loud with the sound of hammers as an apprentice shaped the bowl of a spoon and an older woman fed lumps of coal into the small furnace. She
straightened at their approach, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes going from Rathe to Cambrai and the pontoises and back again.

  “You’re the new adjunct they’ve put in place of Edild?” She didn’t offer her hand, and Rathe didn’t try to force the issue.

  “Nicolas Rathe. I’m taking his place temporarily, until Dammar’s well enough to resume his duties.”

  “That may be some time.” Her voice was dry, and had more than a hint of a country childhood. “He’s none so well just now.”

  “His physician certified him well enough to speak with us.”

  “But not for long.” She sighed, the defiance leaving her. “And where are my manners? I’m Edild’s sister Sawel, this is my house and shop.”

  “Mistress,” Rathe said, nodding. “I expect you know Ormere, she was your brother’s assistant, and this is the cap’pontoise, Euan Cambrai, and his tillerman.”

  “That’s too many to disturb him,” Sawel said.

  “The physician said he could speak,” Rathe said patiently. “Cambrai and I will go in, the others can stay down here.”

  Sawel grimaced, still winding her hands in her apron. “Luce! Is Dr. Bael still there?”

  There was a moment of silence, and then another woman, journeyman-aged but in an ordinary housekeeper’s skirt-and-bodice, came clattering down the narrow stair to peer under the beam at them. “Yes, mistress, she’s here.”

  “Tell her the pointsmen are here to talk to Edild.”

  “Yes, mistress.” Luce disappeared up the stairs again, her clogs loud on the wood. The apprentice had stopped his work to stare, but Sawel glared at him, and he hastily bent over his workbench, hammer sounding with renewed vigor. The clogs came closer, and this time Luce clattered all the way down the stairs.

  “If you please, mistress, the doctor says they can come up. But she says she’ll send them away if they tire him too badly.”