Point of Sighs

by Melissa Scott

  You did that. Rathe swallowed the words. “Bellin, if there are folk you think should be questioned, do it. But I also want the bridge searched.”

  “Yes, Adjunct Point.” Bellin took a deep breath and turned for the door, but paused with it half open. “We’re all on edge. Dammar—he’s one of us.”

  Rathe nodded, the anger draining out of him. That was how things worked in most points stations: you might dislike a colleague, disapprove of how she handled her fees and her points, but you’d fight to the death to defend her, just as she would fight for you. “I want his attacker, too,” he said.

  “Not as badly as we do.” She closed the door behind her before he could do more than nod.

  Rathe swore under his breath, all the clever phrases he had been considering utterly vanished, and reached for a second, smaller slip of paper. He scrawled a note asking Eslingen to meet him at Wicked’s, then rang the bell for a station runner, and sent the girl off in search of him. Dammar’s books sat stacked on the end of his table, and he reached for the most recent, paging through it in the vain hope of finding some name, some incident that he had missed all the previous times. There was still nothing, just the same prim, unremarkable plot of complaint and solution, none of them seeming to have either passion or enough money behind them to have caused the attack. Except, of course, that a careful man wouldn’t have written down anything compromising, and from the books, Dammar was a careful man indeed. If it were one of Eslingen’s plays, there would be a secret book somewhere, a meticulous record in magist’s ink that showed only at a secret word, or some elaborate code that concealed the enemy’s name in a lover’s sonnet.

  He found no sonnets in Dammar’s books, and when he rubbed the pages cautiously between finger and thumb, he didn’t feel any of the odd greasiness that usually accompanied a magist’s ink. Holding a page over the stove’s heat did no better, and Rathe set them aside again, feeling himself flush. This was that sort of case, though, the kind that had you grasping at the thinnest of straws. And the only thing that ever broke a case like that was hard work and a thread of luck.

  There was a knock at the door, and it opened at once to admit the runner, carrying a folded slip of paper. Rathe took it, recognizing Eslingen’s handwriting in the name scrawled across the fold, and tossed the girl a demming. “Did he say anything else?” he asked, scanning the note—a request to meet at the Sandureigne, the most elaborate and expensive of the city’s bathhouses, rather than a Wicked’s.

  The runner shook her head. “No, sir, was he supposed to?”

  “No.” Rathe tossed her another demming. “Thank you.” It must be Eslingen’s taste for luxury that led him to make the suggestion, and not something gone wrong. Still, he caught himself counting the minutes until he could leave for the day.

  The Sandureigne lay just west of the junction with the Queen’s Road, and the evening clouds were thickening again, the scent of rain on the air as the day-sun set. He was glad to see the string of mage-fire globes that framed the entrance, thickening the shadows in the carved tracery that covered the pillared doors. At this hour, the baths were crowded, and he stopped just inside as the wave of noise hit him. The air was warm and damp, smelling of sweat and herbs; he could hear shouting from the fives-court, and from the great pool, and suppressed a sigh at having to share the space with a hundred folk all bent on amusement. A wrought-iron screen divided the narrow lobby from the baths and changing rooms, an attendant sitting at a desk beside the gate. She had a knife with her, a big man with heavy muscles and close-cropped hair, and there would be more watchers in the baths themselves. Enough coin changed hands here to make it a tempting target.

  “I was supposed to meet a friend here,” he said to the attendant, without much hope. “I don’t suppose he left word?”

  The woman smiled, but the expression didn’t reach her tired eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “Nico Rathe.”

  She shuffled through some slips of paper, and her smile widened. “Ah. Here we are. He’s taken one of the private baths.” She lifted a hand, and a girl in a short shift, her sleeves rolled up to expose work-reddened hands and forearms, moved to open the gate. “Scilla will take you—the Serpent, please, Scilla.”

  The girl bobbed a curtsy and pushed the gate open. “This way, please, sir.”

  Rathe followed her through a maze of corridors, his shoes loud on the tiled floor. Its pattern was as elaborate as a Chadroni carpet, the reds and blues and golds vivid in the mage-light, and he wondered what had possessed Eslingen to spend the money on one of the private chambers. The enormous wooden tubs and waiters to bring wine and savories—a full dinner, if you wanted to pay those prices—but you paid in good coin for every amenity. Though if Eslingen had something to celebrate…. Rathe couldn’t hide a smile at the thought of spending an hour or two neck-deep in hot water with no one to see them but the waiter. There were pleasures worth paying for.

  Scilla stopped at a scarlet door, two enormous green and gold snakes twining across its upper half. She knocked briskly, counted to four—Rathe noticed her lips move—and then pushed open the door. “Your guest, sir.”

  Rathe handed her a demming—yet another expense of the baths—and ducked past her into the steam-filled chamber. The bath was sunk into the tiled floor, patterned red and blue stars against cream, and there were benches and a set of shelves piled with clothes. Eslingen was already in the bath, his hair piled high to keep it out of the water, and there was another man with him, a familiar shock of bright-gold hair. Cambrai lifted a dripping hand in greeting.

  “Nico! Glad you could make it. Join us, and pour us all some wine while you’re at it.”

  Sure enough, there was a large pitcher on one of the benches, and an unused cup. Eslingen looked grim and Rathe closed his teeth on a curse. If Cambrai was trying to cause trouble between them, that was the last favor he’d get—and why hadn’t Eslingen sent him about his business, anyway? Rathe took a deep breath, controlling himself, and began to unlace his jerkin. “Was this your idea?”

  “It was my idea,” Eslingen said, with just enough of an edge of annoyance that Rathe felt some of his own unhappiness release. “The cap’pontoise wanted to talk discreetly with you, and this seemed as good a chance as anything. Though I’d thought we might talk elsewhere, and then you and I could bathe.”

  “No point in wasting the water,” Cambrai said, with a look that said he was being deliberately obtuse. “I didn’t want to be seen with you twice in one day, Nico.”

  “I expect that would ruin both our reputations.” Rathe stripped off the rest of his clothes, leaving them piled on the end of a bench, then fetched pitcher and cup and eased himself into the water.

  Eslingen’s mouth tightened. “I’m hoping he can finish this quickly.”

  Cambrai ignored him, and refilled his own cup. “The captain’s got some useful news, as well.”

  Rathe looked at Eslingen, who shook his head. “I do, in actual fact. I told you I wanted to talk to—the captain I mentioned—and I got a name from him, the man they think’s behind the new extortion gang. Jurien Trys.”

  Rathe found a seat on the bench that ran around the inside of the tub, letting his feet float away from the hotter wood at the bottom. “I don’t know him.”

  “But I do,” Cambrai said. “What’s more, I wouldn’t doubt he is in charge of all of this. We’ll go looking for him tomorrow, and I’ve a nice long list of questions once we find him.”

  “Ask him about bes’Anthe,” Rathe said. “If the boy didn’t kill him, and I doubt he did, I’d lay money it has something to do with the new fees.”

  “Eslingen already mentioned that,” Cambrai said. “And I will.”

  “So what else was it you wanted?” Rathe asked. “Seeing as you’ve made such an effort to join us here.”

  Cambrai showed teeth in a grin. “What, do you grudge me the only respite I’ve had all day?”

  “Now that you mention it,” Eslingen began, and Ra
the grinned in spite of himself.

  “I’m sure you have other places to be.”

  “Two things I wanted to talk to you about. First, like I said, I don’t think Dammar’s half as sick as he pretends.”

  Rathe considered, tipping his head to one side. Dammar’s fits of weakness had come too conveniently on the heels of the harder questions to be entirely believable. “I’ll agree with that, yes. But there’s not much we can do about it while his sister has that doctor to watch him.”

  “I sent Saffroy to have a word with that doctor,” Cambrai said. “She allowed as how she’d expected him to be making better progress.”

  “I’d have thought the knife must have touched a lung,” Rathe said, dubiously.

  Cambrai shook his head. “That’s the thing, Bael said it didn’t. He was lucky, it missed nearly everything of importance, so the worst of it was the bleeding. And the beating, of course, but he’s only got a few cracked ribs, and the broken nose, and they’re healing nicely. She’s been building him up with various tonics, but he isn’t responding as quickly as she’d expected.”

  “That’s…interesting,” Rathe said. “Can’t say it’s conclusive, but—interesting.”

  “Something’s gone wrong, and he’s in it up to his neck,” Cambrai said. “At least that’s my judgment.”

  “I can’t argue,” Rathe said. “And his story about how he was hurt doesn’t hold up.” Quickly he ran through his conversation with Dame Havys, Cambrai nodding thoughtfully as he spoke.

  “You think she didn’t call him?”

  “Not for this,” Rathe said. “She’s had dealings with him, and she’s a friend of his sister, she’d do him favors, but—I don’t think he was on the bridge on her business this time. I’ve set a couple of my people to do a sweep, see if they can find where he was attacked—particularly if it wasn’t in the storeroom—and then we’ll see.”

  “Let me know if I can help,” Cambrai said.

  “I will, if you’ll keep me up on what you find about Trys.” Rathe paused, stretching again in the blissfully hot water. His foot struck a leg—Eslingen’s, for a mercy—and they both shifted, sending the water sloshing. “What was the second thing?”

  “Eslingen said you’d seen the broadsheets,” Cambrai said. “About the deaths on the river.”

  Rathe nodded. “I have.”

  “It’s true enough from our point of view,” Cambrai said. “I’d like to know what Point of Sighs knows.”

  “I’ve not had a chance to ask much about it,” Rathe said. “But I’ll pass on what I hear.”

  “Apropos of that,” Eslingen said slowly, “what’s this tale about the greater dogfish?”

  Rathe rolled his eyes, but to his surprise, Cambrai looked uncertain. “What have you heard?”

  “I’ve seen the broadsheets,” Eslingen answered, “and I heard a story from a woman who said she’d seen it herself. But I’m no river-man, that’s why I’m asking you.”

  Cambrai was silent, and Rathe leaned forward. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’ve not seen one,” Cambrai said. “Nor Saffroy. But—two of my reliables have, and I believe they saw something close enough to make it plausible. And the talk is all up and down the docks.”

  “But surely it’s not possible,” Rathe protested.

  “It shouldn’t be, not as I understand it.” Cambrai wiped strands of his sun-gilded hair from his face. “The Riverdeme was bound when the bridges went up, the Queen’s Bridge and then Hopes-Point. The dogfish dwindled, became what they are today. And yet….”

  “Some other sort of fish?” Eslingen asked, without much hope, and Rathe was unsurprised when Cambrai shook his head again.

  “There’s no other like it. Nico, you have friends at the university. Would you ask one of them what they make of all this?”

  “Why don’t you ask them yourself?” Rathe asked.

  “I don’t have friends there,” Cambrai answered. “And, I don’t want to give the broadsheet printers anything more to talk about.”

  “You can’t seriously think the Riverdeme is—what, unbound? In the river somehow?” Rathe pushed himself upright as though that would help him think.

  “I don’t think so. But there are plenty of folk who do.”

  Rathe nodded. “I don’t know anyone offhand who studies the river. But I’ll see what I can find out. And then you can make a formal request.”

  “Thanks.” Cambrai hauled himself out of the water, padded dripping to the rack that held the towels, and began vigorously to dry himself. He was a well-muscled man, neat and graceful. Out of the corner of his eye, Rathe saw Eslingen watching, one eyebrow raised, but he couldn’t quite read the other’s expression. “Well, I’ll leave you to it—” Cambrai’s grin was wide. “And I thank you for the help, Nico. I’ll do the same for you one day.”

  “I’ll make sure of it,” Rathe said, and let himself sink back into the water as Cambrai finished dressing and closed the door behind him.

  Eslingen breathed a laugh. “This was not precisely what I had in mind. I wonder if this is covered by ‘stars bad for water’?”

  Rathe reached under the water to touch his shoulder. “He’s gone now.”

  “And I’ve had about as much hot water as I can stand.” Eslingen straightened and winced. “Especially with the wine on top of it.”

  Rathe frowned. “Are you all right?”

  “I had a bit of a fight,” Eslingen answered. “I saw Young Steen, and Dame Hardelet—it was they who told me about Trys. They’d also come to say that they were taking themselves downriver to Ostolas, and with good cause. A trio of bravos attacked us—and in a Customs Point chophouse, not on the street. Big men with clubs. They meant to take Dame Hardelet, and she’s a good five months’ gone with child.”

  Rathe whistled between his teeth.

  “She’s all right,” Eslingen said

  Rathe cocked his head. “But you’re not, or not entirely. Let me see?”

  For a moment, he thought Eslingen would refuse, but then the other man stood, wincing again, and turned, lifting his left arm to show an angry bruise at the base of his ribcage.

  “He was trying for my kidneys. If he’d hit where he meant, I’d’ve been pissing blood for a week.”

  “Good thing he missed, then.” Rathe did his best to keep his voice light, but a part of him wanted to find the man and beat him into a bloody pulp “What else?”

  “Nothing as spectacular as that,” Eslingen answered. “But I’ll be sore in the morning.”

  “I imagine you’re sore now,” Rathe said.

  Eslingen gave a reluctant nod. “I thought the water would help, and I thought we might steal an hour or two together. But the stars are entirely against me.”

  And it was coming on to rain again, Rathe thought. The bruise on Eslingen’s back was twice as big as a man’s hand, and wrapped around to the front of his body, and now that he looked more closely, there were other marks on the pale skin. “Have another glass of wine,” he said aloud, “and then we’ll take a low-flyer home.”

  “I’ll be drunk if we do that,” Eslingen said.

  “Then you’ll be drunk.” Rathe filled both their cups, and held his out to touch rims with Eslingen’s. “Drink up.”

  “A man might think you were trying to take advantage of me,” Eslingen said, eyes wide in mock innocence.

  “Let’s see how you feel when we get in,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen sighed.

  They finished the pitcher, then dragged themselves out of the tub, Eslingen wincing visibly. Rathe watched him as they dried themselves and dressed, and decided that the Leaguer had probably been telling the truth, though that one blow under the ribs was bad enough. In the lobby, he handed a footman a spider to find a low-flyer for them, and then bundled Eslingen into the damp box before he could protest any further. It was raining again, a sullen drizzle that left the cobbles slick with mud, and made the driver wrap himself in a stiff oilcloth coat and a long-tailed hat
to shed the rain.

  He got them back to their lodgings in excellent time, however, and Eslingen climbed down, flinching again, while Rathe fished in his pocket for the fare and a tip. He handed over the coins, and turned to find that Eslingen already had the gate open, and the weaver’s daughter was waiting to hand over Sunflower.

  “You go up,” Rathe said, and forestalled further protest by taking the dog’s leash. He walked Sunflower through the dripping garden, hunching his shoulders as the rain strengthened, and finally tucked Sunflower under his arm to climb the stairs back to their rooms. For once, Sunflower made no protest, content to hang over arm and hip, and he pushed open the door to see Eslingen straighten from the stove, both fists pressed into the small of his back. The lamp on the table cast an arcing shadow.

  “He’s very quiet,” Eslingen said. “What’s wrong?”

  Rathe set the dog down, seeing him dive for the basket where he had last hidden a bone, and came to lay gentle hands on Eslingen’s shoulders. “I might ask you the same question.”

  Eslingen gave a wry smile. “You saw the bruises. I’m sore, that’s all. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

  “Arnica,” Rathe said, and gave him a gentle push toward the bedroom. “I’ve a whole pot of Dame Falluel’s best ointment—doesn’t even smell like horse liniment. Get your clothes off, and I’ll even put it on for you.”

  For a moment, Rathe thought the Leaguer was going to object, but then he sighed. “I’ll take that, and thank you.” He reached for his collar, tugging at the stock that held it closed. “This evening was more expensive than I’d meant. Let me at least throw in for the low-flyer.”

  Rathe reached for the stock as well, brushing his hands aside. He was absurdly touched: Eslingen didn’t count the cost of his little luxuries, but it was generous of him to offer, on top of everything he’d already spent for the baths. “It’s not a night for walking,” he said aloud, and unfastened the knot, letting the wilting linen gape to reveal a few dark hairs. Eslingen blinked, breath coming short, and then flinched as some bruise caught him. Rathe grimaced in sympathy and cupped his cheek, stubble prickling under his palm. “Now, go on. I’ll bring the arnica.”