Point of Sighs

by Melissa Scott

  “Don’t you know that’s the very zenith of my day? I’m curious about that tea, too.”

  “Yeah.” Rathe touched his purse reflexively, where he’d stowed a borrowed bottle filled with the tea that had been left in the pitcher. Eslingen had the box that the leaves had come from: surely that would be enough to tell them where the poison had come from, if not who had placed it there. Chills and vomiting, followed by weakness and pain and trouble breathing: he could think of two or three poisons that might cause that, but hemlock was most common among them all. That wouldn’t be much help, hemlock grew like a weed along half a dozen streams just outside the city’s bounds and could be purchased from any number of apothecaries, but it was at least a starting point. “Let’s go.”

  They crossed the Hopes-Point Bridge again, the crowds diminished by the thickening clouds overhead. By the time they reached the deadhouse, the wind had risen, driving dust and leaves in swirls across the paving, and the air tasted of rain. The first drops were falling as he lifted the knocker, and beside him he heard Eslingen’s martyred sigh.

  “Tell me we can take a low-flyer home.”

  Not at that price, Rathe thought, but swallowed the words, remembering Eslingen’s bruises. “Let’s see.”

  The door swung open to reveal a girl apprentice, brass-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose to magnify bright brown eyes. “Oh. Fanier said I was to bring you back directly.”

  “You don’t need a name?” Rathe asked, shaking off the raindrops as Eslingen crowded in behind him, and the apprentice gave him a disbelieving stare.

  “Who else would you be?” she asked, closing the door, and started down the hall without waiting for an answer.

  Eslingen snorted, but softly. “Good to know we’ve made an impression.”

  “Pity it’s because we keep bringing them bodies,” Rathe answered.

  The workroom was, as always, spotless and scentless and cold, mage-lights glimmering in globes suspended above each of the tables. Only one was occupied at the moment, a strapping journeyman folding the last of Dame Sawel’s blankets to set with the others waiting neatly stacked, and Fanier turned away from the body, wiping his hands on a strip of linen. He was growing a beard, as wild and white-streaked as his hair, or else, Rathe thought, he’d forgotten to shave since the last time Rathe had seen him.

  “Want to tell me about this one?”

  “I was hoping you’d do that,” Rathe answered. “He died this morning, and the doctor who was tending him fears it was poison.” He ran through the story, trying to give facts without interpretation, and at the end Fanier nodded.

  “Poison, eh? Sounds plausible.”

  “And it makes a change from fish,” the journeyman said, opening a narrow box that held her tools.

  “Fish?” Eslingen said, with a look that suggested he already regretted the question.

  “Two this week—five this month, pulled out of the river and all more or less eaten,” the journeyman answered. “We hope by fish, because the alternatives aren’t pleasant.”

  “That’s still happening?” Rathe asked, remembering his last visit to the deadhouse.

  Fanier shook his head. “The river’s running high, and it’s taking its time releasing the bodies. That’s all.”

  The journeyman opened her mouth to disagree, and Fanier stared her down.

  “Lay out the simulacra, please.”

  She hurried to obey, taking a set of small brass objects from the case and laying them carefully on the body. They were all about the size of a large walnut, and even at a distance, Rathe could identify a heart and lung and something that was probably a liver. There were more, laid in a neat pattern, and when she stepped back Fanier turned his hands palm upward, bracing himself as though he were about to lift a heavy load. The air above the body seemed to thicken, as though somehow fog had crept into the room, and in its depths, wet shapes glistened, heart, distended stomach, an eyeball, a coil of viscera. Rathe looked away, tasting bile, and was mildly relieved to see that Eslingen was looking firmly at his own shoes.

  Fanier gasped, and Rathe risked a quick glance, to see the shapes dissolving into the mist. The mist itself was slower to disappear, but it was fading, thinning into wisps. “Well, your man was damned unlucky.”

  “Damned disliked,” Eslingen murmured

  Fanier shot him a look. “That, too. But what I meant was, he’d done very well to survive that beating. A hair’s breadth in any direction—a hair deeper, certainly—and he wouldn’t have lived to be poisoned. But that knife didn’t touch anything important.”

  “That’s what the doctor said, too,” Rathe said.

  “And that was a thorough beating,” Fanier went on.

  “There’s a cracked rib here,” the journeyman said, “but it’s already almost healed. And of course his nose.”

  Fanier nodded. “With those bruises, I’d expected considerably worse.”

  “So there’s no chance he died from that attack,” Rathe said.

  Fanier shook his head. “None. Which leaves sudden illness, or poison.”

  “Apoplexy?” the journeyman asked. “A cold stroke?”

  “Faintly possible,” Fanier said, “but the others fit the symptoms better. And poison fits them best of all. Which would you look for first, given the symptoms?”

  The journeyman frowned. “Hemlock, I think.”

  “Agreed,” Fanier said. “Do you know the test? Then go ahead.”

  The journeyman stepped closer to the table, wiping her hands on her skirts, then braced herself as Fanier had done, but with her palms turned down. She closed her eyes, concentrating, then swept her hands the length of the body, drawing a series of mirrored gestures with the heels of her hands. There was a tiny crackling sound, like someone walking on distant ice, and a momentary shiver of sparks, barely glimpsed before it was gone again. The journeyman completed her gesture, her eyes flying open.

  Fanier nodded. “Hemlock, all right.”

  Rathe reached into his purse and brought out the stoppered bottle. “He had tea in the night, probably just before he was taken ill. This is what was left of it.”

  “Let’s see what it tells us.” Fanier took the bottle and opened it, sniffing curiously, then handed it to the journeyman. She sniffed in turn and handed it back.

  “Smells like tea to me, boss.”

  “And to me,” Fanier said. “But we’ll see.” He gestured over the bottle’s mouth, and a brighter flicker of sparks was shaken from the air, to fall and float for a breath on the surface of the liquid. “Well, that’s conclusive.”

  “Hemlock in the tea?” Rathe asked, reaching for his tablets.

  Fanier nodded. “No question, and quite a bit of it. Your man wouldn’t have needed to drink much for it to kill him.”

  “I’d guess he had most of a cup,” Rathe said, thinking of the cup beneath the bed and the small damp patch beside the bed.

  “That would be plenty.” Fanier eyed the liquid warily. “Be sure we dispose of this safely, Serra. I suppose the next question is, was it added to the pitcher, or was it in the tea?”

  “As it happens, I can help with that,” Eslingen said, and produced the box with a flourish. “The maid said she made the tea from this—it was Dammar’s own, fetched from his lodgings. I gather there wasn’t much in the box to start with, and Dame Sawel made sure it was saved for him.”

  “Interesting,” Rathe said.

  Eslingen nodded. “Rather begs the question of whether he was meant to be poisoned now, or if this is some other person entirely?”

  “I refuse to believe the man had that many enemies,” Rathe said, but even as he spoke he knew it was possible.

  Fanier gestured again, frowned, and made another gesture. “That’s interesting. There are traces of hemlock in what’s left—in the dust, primarily, as best I can tell—but it’s not as strong as in the tea itself.”

  “So could it have been some mischance that he got a fatal dose in that pitcher?” Rathe couldn
’t keep the skepticism out of his voice, and saw Eslingen’s eyebrows rise.

  “Nobody puts hemlock in anything,” the journeyman said. “Not even a little bit.”

  “Serra’s right,” Fanier said, “and anyway, what’s there is enough to kill a man.” He handed the box back to Eslingen.

  Rathe sighed. “So. He died by hemlock, administered in the tea his sister’s maid brewed for him to drink overnight. After someone had failed to kill him by beating him, knifing him, and throwing him in the Sier.”

  “When you put it that way….” Eslingen said.

  “It seems unlikely that there’d be a second person who’d want to kill him, but I can’t rule it out,” Rathe said. “Nor can I see anyone in his sister’s house trying to poison him.”

  Eslingen agreed. “She loved him, that’s clear, and I don’t see any reason for Luce or anyone else to harm him.”

  Which left them no better than where they’d started. Rathe swore under his breath. “We’ll need to question Luce and the rest of the household, but I’m afraid you’re right, I don’t think they’re involved. At least not knowingly….” He grimaced, thinking of lost time, and the misery of questioning a grieving house, then shook himself back to the present. “Fanier—”

  “I know, you want my report as soon as possible.” The alchemist sighed. “I’ll do the best I can. Shall I send a copy to the surintendant as well? I know you’re not entirely settled at Sighs.”

  “Thanks,” Rathe said. “Come on, Philip, I’d better get back to Sighs.”

  They parted company at the foot of the Hopes-Point Bridge, Eslingen to see if any of Young Steen’s friends knew anything about Jurien Trys, Rathe to return to Point of Sighs. Unsurprisingly, the main hall was full of points, the off-duty watch as well as the day-watch, Sebern sitting on the edge of the duty-point’s table as she listened to their complaints. At Rathe’s appearance, she slid to her feet and came to confront him, hands on hips.

  “Well? What’s the news?”

  “Poison,” Rathe said bluntly, and was meanly pleased to see the shock ripple through the company. “So says Fanier at the deadhouse, and I’ve no reason to doubt him.”

  Sebern had gone pale, her eyes wide. “Poisoned how?”

  “There was hemlock in the tea he drank overnight,” Rathe said. “It, the tea, came from his own lodgings—it was an expensive blend that she thought he’d like while he was getting better. And he was getting better, if he hadn’t been poisoned, he would certainly have lived.” He watched the gathered points as he spoke, but no one responded to that with anything but shock and horror. “And that’s what we know now. Sebern, I want a word with you. Bellin, too, if she’s back.”

  They followed him reluctantly to his workroom, Ormere at their heels to fill the kettle and stoke the fire. Rathe waved for the others to sit and leaned back to rest his shoulders against the wall. “Fanier’s report is on its way, and a copy will be going to the surintendant as well. Bellin, did you hear anything of use from the family?”

  Bellin shook her head. “Not a word. I’ll go back tomorrow, and I’ll want to look over his lodgings, but I don’t think the sister or her people had anything to do with this.”

  “I agree,” Rathe said. “And that brings us right back to where we were before. Someone wanted Edild Dammar dead. I’m asking you again, who are his enemies?”

  There was a little silence, the two women exchanging glances, and then Sebern let out her breath in a frustrated sigh. “Everyone and no one, that’s the problem. There are plenty of folk who hold a grudge against us, and might take it out on Dammar as the senior adjunct, but most of them wouldn’t go to these lengths.”

  “There’s also the evidence of where he was attacked,” Rathe said. “Whoever beat him knew Dammar had access to Dame Havys’s storage compartment—and I’d be interested if you turn up anything that suggests that Dammar himself might have been keeping something there. Someone to do with trade, someone to do with the docks, someone angry enough to try to knife him and then poison him when that doesn’t work.”

  “It’s not a pretty picture,” Sebern said, “but it doesn’t ring any particular bells.”

  “Let me go through the docks,” Bellin said. “We’ll get answers that way, I guarantee it.”

  Rathe hesitated—it might come to that, much as he hated the idea—and to his surprise, it was Sebern who shook her head. “No, Rathe’s right, we need names. Let’s do this gently, we can always press harder if we have to.”

  “Begin with the bridge,” Rathe said. “Maybe someone there saw something.”

  Bellin nodded. “All right. I’ll see to that, Adjunct Point.”

  “I’ll see what I can do to come up with a better list,” Sebern said, rising to her feet. “You might talk to Ormere, she knew him as well as anyone.”

  “I’ll do that,” Rathe said. “Thank you.”

  Left to himself, he leaned back in his chair, and took another drink of the tea, abruptly conscious of all the nuances of its flavor. Was it more bitter than it should be? Did his tongue and lips prickle oddly? He put the cup aside, glaring at the single drop that had splashed onto the table’s worn surface. Poison did that, sowed distrust in ways that other instruments of murder did not; even if he was hated, and he thought on balance the station was getting used to him, it would be folly to poison another adjunct point so close on the heels of Dammar’s death. Even so, it took him a few moments to bring himself to drink again.

  He set the cup to one side and reached for Dammar’s books, turned methodically to the earliest entries. Maybe another reading would give him a name, a case, some thread to pull that would loosen this tangle….

  “Adjunct Point?”

  He looked up to find one of the runners in the doorway, holding out a folded slip of paper.

  “This came from the university, sir. Point of Dreams sent it on.”

  “Bring it here.” Rathe took the paper, turning it over to find a wafer seal embossed with Istre b’Estorr’s familiar monogram. A professional note from one of the university’s more prominent necromancers—because it had to be business, or the note would have gone to his lodgings—was unlikely to be good news. His frown deepened as he read b’Estorr’s note.

  I’d like to talk to you about deaths by drowning. Off the books if possible.

  No, that couldn’t be good, but it couldn’t be ignored, either. Rathe muttered a curse, and searched through the litter of slates and papers to find a suitable scrap. He scrawled an answer, promising to visit the university as soon as he could, and sealed it with one of Sighs’ bright blue wafers. He found a demming, and handed it to the runner along with the note. “Take that to the university, please, and see that Magist b’Estorr gets it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the runner said, and backed into another runner who appeared behind him. They disentangled themselves with only minor scuffling, and the newcomer shouldered her way in.

  “A message from the cap’pontoise, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Rathe took the paper and broke its seal, scowling as he read Cambrai’s scrawl.

  No sign yet of Trys. He seems to have gone to ground, no one’s seen him in a day and a half. We’ll keep looking. Meet tonight—six at the Cockerel?

  Rathe swore again. No good news there, and he had worse to share: he scrawled an acknowledgement, sealed it with another of the station’s wafers, and handed it back to the runner along with a couple of demmings. “Give that to the cap’s man, and you find Captain vaan Esling, ask him to meet me at the Cockerel at six.”

  The runner ducked his head, and disappeared, and Rathe tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Maybe together the three of them could find some way forward.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Cockerel was as unprepossessing a place as it had been the first time Eslingen approached it, although at least this time it wasn’t actually raining. He kept a sharp watch for puddles, and was relieved to reach the opposite side of the square without getting more than a mo
derate film of mud on his already dirty boots. Inside, the tavern was dark and warm and not particularly crowded, and he was unsurprised to find both Rathe and Cambrai ahead of him, tucked into a table in one of the back corners, far enough away from both the fire and the serving hatch to make them inconspicuous. Eslingen wove his way through the maze of tables, and Rathe lifted a hand in welcome.

  “Philip. Any luck?”

  “Nothing.” Eslingen pulled out a stool, angling it slightly so that his back wasn’t quite to the door. “Nobody wanted to talk to me, and the ones who finally did, they didn’t have much to say.”

  ”You were looking for Trys, too?” Cambrai asked.

  “Nobody likes him,” Eslingen said, “and they’re all scared of him, those are the main things I learned. But what he’s done, or where he is—nobody wants to touch that.”

  “His sister keeps a resort-house by the end of Bonfortune’s Row, and Trys generally holds court in a side parlor there,” Cambrai said. “But he’s not been there for two nights, and his people are starting to get nervy about it. And with Dammar dead, that raises some awkward questions.”

  “You think Trys had something to do with poisoning Dammar?” Eslingen said, doubtfully

  Cambrai shrugged.

  Rathe drew shapes in a puddle of spilled wine. “There’s no proof. But if Dammar was attacked because of the extortion gang, and if Trys is in fact behind it—well, he might have cause to rid himself of Dammar.”

  “That’s a lot of ifs,” Eslingen said, after a moment.

  Rathe sighed. “That’s what I’ve got.”

  “Dammar’s a dead end, unless your people have something to say,” Cambrai said, and grimaced at the inadvertent pun.

  “I’ve got a station full of women who’d like nothing better than to sweep the docks clear of anyone who looks even slightly less than law-abiding,” Rathe said. “For all his faults, Euan, Dammar was theirs—one of us.”

  “I won’t claim him,” Cambrai said, and waved a hand. “I know, you have to.”

  “I’d—” Rathe closed his mouth over whatever he had been going to say. I’d rather not, Eslingen guessed it would have been, and repressed the desire to reach out and touch his shoulder. “He was one of ours.”