Point of Sighs

by Melissa Scott

  “Thanks.”

  “In the meantime….” Rathe suppressed a groan, thinking of the long hours ahead of him. “I’ll set my people to see if they find any connection between Trys and Dammar.”

  “He was the sort to take fees from the likes of Trys,” Cambrai said, “but try getting that out of a Sighs pointsman.”

  That had too much truth not to sting, but enough to keep Rathe silent. If Dammar had had anything to do with Trys—and, like Cambrai, he found it hard to avoid the thought—it was going to be hard to persuade anyone at the station to admit knowing it. Better to start with Trys’s associates, and hope one of them was feeling vindictive. “Better put me ashore. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The fog had lifted a bit by the time Eslingen reached the Staenka house, both suns showing briefly through the clouds. The butler Drowe greeted him with what might have been genuine warmth. Redel was at the warehouse, he said, and Mattaes in his rooms, where he’d been since being confined to the house, but Meisenta would be happy to see him. To Eslingen’s surprise, Elecia Gebellin was sitting at Meisenta’s side, to the patent disapproval of the small woman stirring up the fire, but she rose to her feet as Eslingen was announced.

  “I must be going, then. But I hope this is good news, Captain.”

  She swept out without waiting for Eslingen to answer, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the small woman scowl. Personal dislike, he wondered, or just worry Meisenta was spending too much time with another woman’s leman? A maidservant, one might have said, except for the quality of her skirt and bodice, and he was careful to include her in his bow.

  “Madame. Dame.”

  “Captain.” Meisenta gestured toward the pair of chairs drawn up in front of the fire. “Dare I hope you’ve brought us news?”

  “You’ve heard about Adjunct Point Dammar, then.” Eslingen seated himself as the second woman straightened from the fire and came to stand beside Meisenta’s chair.

  “Rumor reached us,” Meisenta said. “Is it true he’s dead?”

  “Yes.” Eslingen took a breath. “He was attacked on the Hopes-Point Bridge, beaten and stabbed and thrown into the river. He survived that, but was poisoned in his sister’s house. The points are looking for his killer.”

  “Who cannot have been Mattaes.” Meisenta gave a wry smile. “You’ll forgive me if I sound self-centered, but my brother’s situation has to be my first concern.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” Eslingen said. “And as far as I know, Point of Sighs is looking to Dammar’s connections along the docks. This doesn’t absolve Mattaes of bes’Anthe’s death, I’m afraid, but this and some other troubles among the sailors makes his story seem more likely. I also came to ask a favor.” Eslingen reached into his pocket to bring out the box that held the remnants of Dammar’s tea. “I have a tea here that I’d like to identify, and I hoped you might help me.”

  “Hyris,” Meisenta said. “My assistant, Captain. Hyris Telawen.”

  “Dame,” Eslingen said, with another half-bow.

  The small woman took the box from Eslingen’s hand and gave it to her mistress. Meisenta worked the lid free, and bent over it cautiously. Her eyebrows rose, and she sniffed more deeply, then reached in to feel the broken leaves that were all that was left.

  “I smell hemlock.”

  “Yes.” Eslingen dipped his head.

  “This was the tea that killed him?”

  “The very same.”

  Meisenta lowered the box to her lap, frowning over it as though she could see the crumbs, then brought it to her nose again. “A good base—an expensive base, and I would guess an expensive blend. Hyris?”

  Telawen took the box and sniffed at it, slanting a wary glance at Meisenta. “Hemlock, certainly.”

  “I don’t know the blend,” Meisenta said. “Do you?”

  Telawen hesitated, and finally shook her head. “No, madame.”

  Meisenta took it from her and held it out. Eslingen retrieved it with murmured thanks. He tucked the box back into his coat pocket. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed her, though, or at least if he believed Telawen. There was a wariness in the small woman’s eyes that made him suspicious. When Drowe showed him out, he paused for a moment, then turned toward Point of Sighs.

  Most of the tea warehouses lay a street or two back from the river, and clustered along a wider section of Ordinary Lane. There were half a dozen tea shops as well, warmly lit rooms that sold brewed tea and cakes to eat at the tables set into their bowed windows, and loose teas and blends at the counter in the back. There was an ironmonger’s as well, with a great iron kettle on display in her window, and shops where you could buy fine pottery cups and even glassware: everything for the trade of tea, or at least the best of it, could be found along the lane.

  There was no mistaking the Staenka warehouse, a ship between two lighthouses carved and painted above the main door, and Eslingen stepped up into another warmly lit room heavily scented with tea. There were no cakes for sale, or teas served by the pot; instead, there were two counters at the back of the shallow room, and stoves at either end where apprentices tended kettles and journeymen brewed tiny tasting pots for favored customers. The walls were covered with old-fashioned wood panels, mellow in the lamplight, and a frieze of ships and flowers and lighthouses circled the room just below the ceiling. The place spoke of money, and Eslingen caught his own posture changing in response.

  A woman in a long russet gown badged with the Staenka ship came to meet him, her eyes sweeping over him to assess the cut of his coat and the value of his linen. “How may we help you—Captain, is it?”

  Eslingen bowed slightly in answer. “It is. Philip vaan Esling, to see Redel Staenka. I’m sure she’s busy, but I promise it won’t take long.”

  The woman, a senior journeyman, swallowed her automatic protest, and produced a small bow of her own. “I’ll see what I can do, Captain. In the meantime….”

  She showed him to one of the tall tables—there were no chairs; clearly the customers here were not meant to linger—and he rested one elbow on its scratched surface while she disappeared through a door set in the wall between the two counters. The rest of the room was certainly busy, Eslingen thought. There were at least half a dozen buyers between the counters and the various tall tables, but it was striking that none of them looked particularly happy. Even as he thought that, the woman nearest him pushed a box—a sample of leaves—back toward the blue-coated journeyman, who spread her own hands in helpless apology. The first woman sighed, shaking her head, and slowly pulled the box back toward her. He had seen nothing else that made the tea merchants’ troubles so clear.

  The door opened again, and the senior journeyman beckoned. Eslingen followed her through the gap into a hall that smelled even more strongly of tea and mixed herbs. Ahead, he could see an opening that seemed to lead into the warehouse proper, but the woman turned aside, leading him instead up a short flight of stairs. On the left was the barred door of the counting room, a bored-looking knife cleaning his nails beside it while a gray-haired woman moved coins on a counting board. Her fingers moved so quickly that there was an almost constant whisper of silver against itself. The workroom was on the other side, and the senior journeyman tapped briskly on the door before pushing it open.

  “Captain vaan Esling, dame.”

  “Thank you, Moll.” Redel rose from behind her table and came to meet him, both hands outstretched in greeting. Eslingen took them, aware that she was not alone, that both Elecia Gebellin and d’Entrebeschaire were sitting to one side. Elecia must have taken a low-flyer, to get here so quickly, he thought, but made himself focus on Redel first. “Dame. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “I’ve been hoping for good news. Elecia told me that Dammar’s been killed.”

  “And rather thoroughly, too, by all accounts,” d’Entrebeschaire said, with a faint smile.

  “Beaten and stabbed and thrown in the river,” Eslingen said, “an
d when that didn’t kill him, poisoned. You could say they made a thorough job of it, Maseigne.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be flippant,” d’Entrebeschaire said. “Surely this is good news for Mattaes.”

  “It very likely is,” Eslingen answered, “though it doesn’t remove him from suspicion over bes’Anthe’s death. If nothing else, though, I think it will make the points take a second look at bes’Anthe’s other enemies.”

  “And by all accounts there were enough of them,” Redel said, with a glance at Elecia.

  “So they say,” she said.

  Eslingen cleared his throat. “But that wasn’t the only thing I came for.” He reached into his pocket and brought out the box. “I was hoping you might put a name to the maker.”

  “Meisenta’s better at that than I am,” Redel said, wiggling off the lid. “But I’ll try.” She sniffed it, cautiously at first and then more deeply, her brows drawing down into a puzzled frown. “Is that hemlock?”

  Eslingen nodded.

  “This is the tea that killed Dammar?”

  “It was his particular fancy, I’m told.”

  “Poor bastard.” Redel must have seen something change in Elecia’s expression, some doubt or question, for her own brows drew down again. “I’ve no liking for the man, but hemlock’s a bad death.” She took another deep breath. “It smells more than a bit like our own Midsummer Blend. What do you think, Elecia?”

  Elecia accepted the box and sniffed cautiously. “I don’t know….”

  “There’s a definite note of berries,” Redel said. “Meisenta’s the one who thought of it, and we’re the only house that mixes dried red berries and lad’s-love. And the ordinary smells like ours.”

  “It’s hard to tell one ordinary from another.” Elecia offered the box to d’Entrabeschaire, who waved it away.

  Elecia shrugged and handed the box back to Redel. “And I’d say dog-mint, rather than lad’s-love. But that’s just my guess.”

  Redel poked in the box, turning the few fragments over with her fingernail. “No, that’s lad’s-love, I’m almost sure, and that’s red berry, or what’s left of the husk, that’s definitely ours. I wish there were more here, I could tell for sure if I could see the flowers.” She closed the lid again, and handed it back. “But I think it is our own Midsummer Blend.”

  Eslingen thanked them as he tucked the box away again. “I’m guessing it’s not difficult to buy.”

  Redel grinned. “If he bought it—more likely demanded it as a fee. It’s in the shops, or you can buy it here, we’ll sell to the public. But we don’t make much of it, and we stop making it on the first day of the Fire Moon. A box like that, I’ve have expected him to have finished it long before this, not have enough left nearly three months on to make a pot of tea.”

  “He might have kept it for special occasions,” Elecia said.

  Eslingen nodded. “That’s the most likely thing, of course. But if he didn’t, and you stop making it—where would he have gotten it?”

  “From us,” Redel said. “Any one of the family…we can always blend up a batch as a favor. Or from someone who works for us—the people at the warehouse could follow the blender’s book if someone wanted it badly enough.”

  “The people on the wharf?” d’Entrebeschaire asked.

  Redel shook her head. “I wouldn’t think so. They don’t have access to the recipes, or to the teas, at least not easily.”

  “There’s the tunnel,” Elecia said. “They could get in that way.”

  “Tunnel?” Eslingen asked.

  Redel offered, “The tunnel to the river—most of the big warehouses have them, to make it easier to move goods. The shore’s built up a good ten feet above the water. But we keep the gates down and the chains in place when we’re not actually using it, and Meisenta would fire anyone she caught using it without her permission. No, it has to be someone who actually works here, in the warehouse.”

  “Or who did a favor for someone,” Elecia said. “That stretches things very thin.”

  “So it does,” Eslingen said easily. “But every thread of a connection’s important.” Telawen had recognized the blend, he thought, and Meisenta—had not? Had lied? He suspected the latter. The lie made the thread more important, though he kept his expression polite and friendly. “Dame, I thank you for your time. And your help.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Elecia said.

  Redel nodded. “Do you have any idea when Mattaes will be allowed to walk free?”

  “That’s a matter for the points,” Eslingen answered, “but I’ll find out what I can.”

  “If you’ll come with me?” Elecia said, turning toward the door, and Eslingen followed.

  She led him past the counting-room—the woman was now writing busily in a ledger, a strongbox open beside her—and down the stairs again, but instead of turning toward the entrance, she paused at the open door that led to the warehouse itself. “Would you like a quick look? I imagine a Leaguer wouldn’t have had a chance to see how a merchant resident manages her stock.”

  “That would be very interesting,” Eslingen answered, with perfect truth, though a part of him wondered exactly what she wanted him to see, and she beckoned him to the doorway. Eslingen came to join her, looking past her into the shadowed depths that stretched almost two stories to a broad-beamed ceiling. A few mage-lights shone at irregular intervals, revealing a stand of cabinets, each of the locked sections marked with pale paper labels, single spots of light in the gloom. Beyond the cabinets, he could see wooden and iron-bound chests piled in irregular stacks. To one side, a young man in a blue coat took notes while another young man laid out rows of smaller boxes, a mage-light swinging gently above their heads, and all the way at the back of the hall, tucked into a corner not blocked by the piles of boxes, he saw another light above an iron-barred archway.

  “Is that the tunnel you were talking about?”

  Elecia nodded, the curling strands of hair that had worked from from her braids like lines of ink against her fair skin. “It runs straight out to the river. It’s easier to bring the chests in here that way than haul them through the streets.”

  “I expect it would be more convenient,” Eslingen said, with what he hoped was convincing disinterest. She seemed determined to draw his attention to the river access, and he wondered what she’d do if he failed to take the hint. “Can I assume, with everything that’s been happening, that in another year there would be more chests stored here?”

  “You can indeed,” she answered, and he couldn’t tell if she was happy with the change of subject or disappointed. “This is less than half what the Staenkas should have at this time of year. But at least we’ve had word that another shipload is on its way from Ghise.”

  That was one of the smaller ports south of Astreiant. “We?” Eslingen asked, and even in the poor light, he thought he saw her skin darken.

  “Aucher is married to Meisenta, so of course I think of his business as mine also. And of course Meisenta has been a friend for many years.”

  “Of course,” Eslingen echoed.

  Elecia turned back toward the main door, and opened it to allow him to pass through into the shop. “I hope you’ll have good news for us soon.”

  “So do I,” he answered, and moved away.

  It was late afternoon by the time he left the warehouse, the clock at Point of Sighs chiming the quarter hour. Almost five o’clock, he guessed, from the fading light, and turned toward the station. If nothing else, he needed to give Rathe his news, and with a bit of luck, they might be able to go straight to Wicked’s and a decent meal. The duty point greeted him with recognition if without warmth, and sent a runner to warn Rathe; the girl returned few minutes later, wood-soled clogs loud on the stone floor.

  “The adjunct says, you’re to go on up, Captain.”

  Rathe’s door was open, and he looked up from a slip of paper with a welcoming smile. The kettle was bubbling on the stove, and a pot of tea sat ready: things seeme
d back to normal, though Eslingen would have been willing to bet that the tea came from Rathe’s own supplies.

  “Have you heard our news?”

  “I don’t think so.” Eslingen settled himself in the visitor’s chair and at Rathe’s nod poured himself a cup of tea.

  “Trys is dead.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely.”

  “Isn’t it? Also stabbed, not expertly, and dumped in the river. He washed up on the mooring strand just above the Queen’s Bridge. I’d say he’d been in the water at least a day, and more likely two.”

  Eslingen swore under his breath. “And no witnesses, no whisper of what happened?”

  “Of course not.” Rathe lifted the slip of paper. “And now I’ve got a note from the deadhouse saying that this isn’t a formal report yet, but Fanier says the man was worked to exhaustion and then stabbed, and do I have any idea how that might have happened?”

  Eslingen blinked. “That’s different. And not precisely helpful, either.”

  “Not that I can see, at least not so far.” Rathe drained his cup, and Eslingen refilled it. “Ah, that’s better. I’ve got my people out searching, I’ve a hope they’ll turn up something useful, and of course there will be a full report later, but….”

  “I had a chance to ask about the tea. Meisenta said she didn’t recognize it, nor did her assistant, but I asked Redel as well, and she said it was one of their own blends. They both picked up the hemlock, by the way.”

  “That’s interesting,” Rathe said. “I’d have said Meisenta was the better tea-blender of the two.”

  “I think she was lying. I thought the assistant recognized it, that’s why I went on to the warehouse and talked to Redel. And I’m damned if I can see why.”

  “Something about the tea itself?” Rathe asked.

  “It’s their Midsummer Blend, Redel said, and they stop selling it at summer’s end—at the start of the Fire Moon, she said. After that, you can only get it if you know the family, or less likely someone in the warehouse who was willing to blend it for you.”