The Staenka house looked brighter in sunlight, the carving above the door more clearly marked by the fall of light and shadow. One of the servants was scrubbing the already spotless stones of the step, but sat back on his heels at Eslingen’s approach.
“Captain! Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m looking for the Vidame d’Entrebeschaire. I don’t suppose she’s here?”
“Since Dame Meisenta married that Aucher, we never seem to get rid of her, or Dame Gebellin either.” The man glanced over his shoulder, grimacing. “Which I should not have said, sir, and I’d take it kindly if you’d forget it.”
“Forget what?” Eslingen asked, and the man pushed himself to his feet, reaching for the knocker.
“If you’ll allow me, sir.”
A moment later, the door opened, and Drowe bowed politely. “Captain vaan Esling. Won’t you come in?”
Eslingen picked his way up the damp stairs, trying not to disturb the servant’s work. “I’m here on an off chance—I’m looking for the vidame, if she’s here?”
“She is, sir, with Dame Gebellin.” Drowe waved him toward the library. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll fetch them.”
“My business is with the vidame,” Eslingen said, but didn’t know if Drowe had heard or even cared. He tuned back to the bookshelves, wondering if there were any books here that had given Elecia her stories about the Riverdeme. The majority were herbals and recipe books, mixed with what might be travelers’ tales and a few slim, well-worn volumes that bore only two or three letters on their spines. He started to reach for one, curious, and the door opened behind him. He turned, preparing his best smile, and saw as he had expected both d’Entrebeschaire and Elecia.
“Captain,” d’Entrebeschaire said. “Drowe said you were looking for us?”
“For you, actually, Maseigne. I wanted a word with you about your brother.”
“Balfort, you mean?” D’Entrebeschaire frowned lightly.
“Yes.” Eslingen waited, not quite sure why he held his tongue, and Elecia rolled her eyes.
“What of him? We haven’t seen him since you brought him here that other day.”
D’Entrebeschaire laid a hand briefly on her arm, and she subsided. D’Entrebeschaire said, “If he was looking for me, he would have gone to my house in Hearts. I was heading there myself, if you’d care to accompany me?”
“That would be kind of you, Maseigne,” Eslingen said.
“Is this really necessary?” Elecia asked. “I’m sure Captain vaan Esling can find his own way.”
“I daresay, but I’ve business of my own to attend to. Don’t fret, Elecia, I’ll be back this evening.”
“Please yourself,” Elecia answered. “Another time, Captain.”
“Dame.” Eslingen bowed, but kept his eye on d’Entrebeschaire, and saw her sigh.
“Walk with me, Captain,” she said.
To his surprise, she said nothing more until they had reached the street, and then it was only to suggest they take Gardeners Street. Eslingen acquiesced, matching her easy stride as they passed iron fences wound with vines. They were bare now, at the end of autumn, or held only a few tattered leaves and a withered berry, and d’Entrebeschaire snatched at a leaf as they passed.
“You took Balfort as your ensign, is that right?”
“I did.”
“And consider yourself responsible for him?”
“Yes.”
“Then why in Seidos’ name did you let him involve himself in this matter?” D’Entrebeschaire stopped abruptly, swinging to face him. “You must have known it would only bring him trouble.”
“I didn’t know that you and Dame Gebellin were so close to the Staenkas,” Eslingen answered. “And when I did, I offered him the chance to step away.”
“Which you knew he wouldn’t take.” D’Entrebeschaire’s voice was bitter. “He’ll never go back on what he sees as his duty. Which is why I’ve stepped in.”
Eslingen lifted his eyebrows at that, and she raised a hand to silence him.
“Yes, he came to me last night. I did not tell Elecia. Nor did I let him see her, as he wanted. I…have had some concerns about her involvement with the Staenkas, commercially and personally, and I didn’t want him complicating matters any further. If, as I begin to fear, there is something amiss—I want him clear of it. He’s too young and has no standing to protect him.”
“He is part of the Guard,” Eslingen said, mildly.
“That will only make this worse, if…if what I fear is true. I’ll make you a bargain, Captain. Keep my brother out of this. Let me take him home, say he’s ill, let him not be involved when your leman calls the point, and in exchange, I’ll give you information you’ll find useful.”
“What sort of information?” Eslingen asked.
“Your word first, Captain.”
Eslingen took a breath, not liking the bargain but not seeing any better option. He wondered if she knew of her brother’s misplaced passion, if this was her way of dealing with that as well. “Very well, if you keep him home—if you can—I’ll make sure his witness isn’t required and that his name isn’t mentioned. Is that enough?”
D’Entrebeschaire nodded, the stiffness leaving her shoulders. “I was—I have always been fond of Elecia, I’ve done everything I can for her. But this needs to end.” She reached beneath her outer skirt, through an open seam hidden in the folds, and came out with a heavy iron key. “She talks too much about the Riverdeme, she dotes on every broadsheet tale and spreads new ones when she can. And she spends too much time with the Staenkas. Not just with Meisenta—don’t think this is just jealousy. I know she visits the Staenka warehouse on her own, without Redel or even Aucher to keep her company. There is something very wrong there.” She held out the key. “Elecia had this key to the side door cut. I don’t think any of the Staenkas know she has it.”
“She’ll be missing it,” Eslingen said, but took it, the weight heavy in his hand.
“She thinks she lost it on the river and had another one made. I don’t know what she’s doing, but—” D’Entrebeschaire stopped with a little gasp, then made herself go on. “Perhaps it’s nothing. I pray it’s nothing. But there are too many dead.”
“Thank you,” Eslingen said. There was more he wanted to say, to acknowledge what she was doing, the sacrifice she was making, for even if Elecia were innocent, things could never again be the same between the lemen.
“Make it quick, Captain. I can’t bear the waiting.” And then she had turned on her heel and stalked away up the busy street, leaving him standing with the warehouse key clutched in his hand.
CHAPTER 12
Eslingen made his way back toward Point of Sighs, keeping one eye out for anyone taking too close an interest in his progress. He saw no one, just the city’s ordinary traffic, but he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he was being played for a fool. D’Entrebeschaire’s story was all well and good—and a part of him wanted to believe it, to think that she was trying to protect her younger brother—but he couldn’t let himself trust her. At the worst, it was a trap, an attempt to lure him into the river-connected tunnels where almost anything could be waiting. And that, he told himself, was why he needed to talk to Rathe: if there was a way to use this safely, Rathe would know.
To his relief, Rathe was in his workroom, frowning over a stack of papers and notes scrawled on scraps and thin bits of slate. He looked up at Eslingen’s approach and waved toward the guest’s chair, his expression lightening. “Have a seat. Have some tea. Care to give me a fresh eye on this mess?”
Eslingen seated himself, though he didn’t pour himself any of the stewed tea that waited on the stove, and gave the papers a wary look. He thought at least one of the sheets came from the deadhouse, but it was hard to read the spidery writing upside down. “What’s all this?”
“You might ask what it isn’t.” Rathe added a slate to what Eslingen realized was in fact a pile—in fact, what looked like chaos seemed to have some patter
n to it—and then drew the deadhouse report out from under a set of similar pages. “This is Fanier’s judgment on Trys. He confirms that Trys died of being stabbed, but also that he was in a state of complete exhaustion when it happened. Might not even have been conscious when he was stabbed, that’s how bad it was. And now I’m really wondering about Euan’s story.”
Eslingen blinked, then remembered. “The drowning cell?”
Rathe nodded.
“It’s a nasty thought.” The idea chilled Eslingen to the marrow, and it was too easy to imagine: the narrow room, the pump, the water rising inexorably no matter how hard you labored.
“Did your runner—ensign, sorry—come up with any more tales about it?” Rathe asked.
“No. In fact, his sister’s pulled him out of the business, taken him home.”
“And what does the boy have to say to that?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t speak to him.” Eslingen sighed. “Which would worry me more if I didn’t suspect she was trying to cure him of an ill-advised passion.”
“Always possible.”
“And she gave me this.” Eslingen pulled the key from his pocket and laid it on the nearest pile of papers. Rathe eyed it dubiously.
“And that unlocks?”
“The side door of the warehouse,” Eslingen said. “Or so the vidame tells me. She says she took it from Elecia, who had a copy unknown to the Staenkas.” He ran through what d’Entrebeschaire had told him, and when he had finished, Rathe dug a hand into his untidy hair.
“I don’t like it. It’s too easy. Even if d’Entrebeschaire is willing to betray her leman, there’s no saying that Elecia didn’t leave the key for her to find. Or that Elecia didn’t put her up to it.”
“Or that she’s not trying to get back at Elecia,” Eslingen said. “She and Meisenta are a bit close for my taste, if Elecia were my leman.”
“I saw that too.”
Eslingen nodded. “I don’t know what to make of it, though.”
“No more do I.” Rathe turned the key over and over between his fingers as though that would give him some answer.
“You think it’s a trap,” Eslingen said, and didn’t know whether he was offended or relieved to have it out in the open.
Rathe set the key down carefully, as though it were made of glass. “It’s awfully convenient, Philip.”
“And yet—it’s what she’d do if she had to choose between her brother and a lesser-born leman.”
“You believed her.”
Eslingen paused, considering. “I believe she was worried for Balfort,” he said at last. “That was genuine.”
“But doesn’t preclude laying a trap for us,” Rathe said.
Eslingen inclined his head in agreement. “So what do we do? Ignore the offer? Come back in daylight?
“Daylight’s no good,” Rathe said. “Too many people around who won’t be part of this, and if this does involve the Riverdeme and if she’s been released, we’d be putting them in danger.”
“Ignore it, then?”
“I think we have to chance it,” Rathe said. “But not without backup.”
“What if we took a troop of the Guard down with us?” Eslingen asked. “They’re only expecting two of us, maybe we could overpower them—whoever they are.”
“I thought of bringing people from Sighs,” Rathe said, “but I don’t know who to trust. And I can’t send to Dreams instead without starting a feud between our stations that’d last a decade. If I was sure we were going to find something, I might risk it, but—not without more proof.”
“The Guard,” Eslingen suggested again, and Rathe shook his head.
“No jurisdiction.”
It was, regrettably, true, and Eslingen dipped his head. “The pontoises? I know you can’t ask them to come with us, but could they patrol the shoreline, stand ready to help us if we signal for help? Though I’m damned if I know how we’d do that.”
“I think the pontoises are our best bet,” Rathe said. “And as for signals—have you ever used signal flares?”
Eslingen grimaced. “I have, and no, that’s a terrible idea.” The flares were fireworks warranted to give off pretty colors and shapes, intended to carry orders through the smoke and din of a battlefield, but in his experience they were mostly good for frightening horses.
“The ones they use at sea are different,” Rathe said. “Self lighting, and the light carries a long way, lasts a long time—it has to, to be seen from shore, or on another ship.”
“I’m still not sure how much good that does us underground,” Eslingen said.
“Fire one down one of the tunnels that leads out to the river, and anyone in a boat should see the light at the tunnel’s mouth. We can pick up half a dozen at any chandlers.” Rathe gave a wry smile. “And it’s better than nothing.”
“Anything would be,” Eslingen murmured. “Do you think Cambrai will do it?”
“I don’t know why he wouldn’t,” Rathe answered. “He wants this ended as much as we do.” He sorted through the scraps of paper on his desk, finally found one that seemed mostly unused. He tore off the corner that still had writing on it, dropping it tidily into the stove, scrawled something on the remaining section, and reached for a box of seals. “Ring the bell, would you?”
Eslingen obliged, and a moment later one of the station’s runners opened the door.
“Adjunct?”
“Take this to the cap’pontoise,” Rathe said, and held out the folded message. The girl took it with a curtsey that suggested she had received a coin with it, and disappeared again.
“What next?” Eslingen asked.
“You and I will do some shopping—I was serious about the flares—and take a blameless supper at a tavern called the Little Captain,” Rathe said, and slid the key back toward Eslingen. “And then—we’ll see.”
The Little Captain proved to be respectable enough, though most of its patrons were dock clerks and warehouse workers, with the occasional ship’s carpenter or sailmaker thrown in to remind one that this was Point of Sighs. They had found a table in the back corner, a safe distance, Eslingen hoped, from the fireplace, considering the packet of signal flares that nestled between his feet. The ordinary was, as Rathe had said, decent if uninspired, and the remains of a mutton pie lay between them, Rathe still picking idly at the gravy-soaked crust. They had split a pint of wine, also decent, were waiting now for confirmation from the pontoises before heading to the warehouse.
Even as he thought that, there was a movement in the shadows, and Saffroy—almost unrecognizable in a foppish coat and tight breeches—appeared at the table. He smiled down at Rathe and said something in a voice too low for Eslingen to hear, but Rathe nodded and laughed, and Saffroy turned away. Eslingen controlled the unworthy urge to throw a piece of crust after him, and said, “We’re on?”
“We’re on. Euan will have boats watching in case we get into trouble—and ready to pick us up, too, though at least the tide is with us.”
“Right.” Eslingen nudged the packet between his feet, heavy for its size and stuffed with magist-treated gunpowder. “I suppose we’d better get on with it.”
They weren’t far from the Staenka warehouse, but they took their time, looping around through the side streets so that they came up on it at an angle, along the street that would eventually lead past the side door. The main windows had all been shuttered for the night, the entrance closed, though a mage-light flickered in a cage above the arch. It would discourage thieves from trying to meddle with the locks, Eslingen thought, but he couldn’t imagine that a thief would try anything so public. The street was growing quiet, only a single clerk hurrying south toward dinner or lodgings, her fast pace revealing flashes of pale stockinged ankle. The side street was darker, overshadowed by the neighboring building—another warehouse, windowless on this side, and built of solid dark stone. They crossed to the door without haste, and Eslingen drew out the key.
“Wait.” Rathe drew a bit of crooked wire from
his own pocket, tapped the lock with it, then drew a quick circle around the plate. When nothing happened, he said, “Go ahead, there’s no magists’ work on it.”
Eslingen slid the key into the lock and twisted gently. The key’s teeth bit the tumblers smoothly, the wards turning over with only a soft click. He caught the door before it could swing too far open, and peered inside. The hall beyond was dark, and he glanced at Rathe, who shrugged.
Eslingen eased the door back far enough to slip through. Rathe followed him, pulling the door softly closed behind them, and they stood together in the dark waiting for their eyes to adjust. It was quiet, and the air smelled pleasantly of tea and spices and paper: any watchman was in some other part of the building. “Light?”
“I think we can risk it.” Rathe found his little lantern, eased back the shutter just enough to cast a dim fan across the floor. They were in a side hall, and one that seemed to be used for random storage; the passage was narrowed by boxes and baskets, and the stone floor was strewn with small shadows that might be any sort of small object.
“Someone being clever?” Eslingen stooped to examine the nearest of those shadows. It proved to be a piece of wood the size of his thumb: not enough to trip a woman, unless she was remarkably unlucky, but in the silence the crack of wood kicked against stone would be clearly audible.
“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Rathe let the light play along the hall, not moving himself, and gave a satisfied sigh when the light picked out another tall door. “That way.”
The inner door proved to be unlocked. Eslingen eased it open, noting the well-oiled hinges, and found that it gave onto an inner corridor beneath the stairs. Tiny mage-lights glowed in sconces the size of a hen’s egg, offering just enough light to see, and Rathe closed his lantern again. “Watchman’s lights.”
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