“But that’s neither here nor there,” Steen said. “I’ve something to tell you, too.” He whistled through his teeth and the girl snapped to attention. “Essi, keep the watch. I’m not to be interrupted unless it’s serious.”
“Yes, captain,” the girl answered, and perched on a barrel by the gangway.
“Come within,” Young Steen said, and Eslingen followed him into the cabin.
It was bigger than he’d expected, with a front room like a parlor and a door that obviously led to the captain’s private quarters. The parlor was dominated by a chart table, and a rack of cubbies was chained to the rear wall. Thick glass sun-stealers caught and magnified the light from the deck above, and a pair of bracket-lanterns were lit as well, the sweet smell of the oil not quite enough to drown out the smell of tar. Steen waved him to a stool, and took another one himself, leaning one elbow on the chart table.
“What did you want with me?” Steen said.
“I came to see if you’d thought of any place your father might have hidden his chest of gold, since it seems clear Dame van Duiren hasn’t found it,” Eslingen answered. “Or, failing that, where he might have left some key to finding it.”
Steen grinned. “Dad was never much for treasure maps.”
“And here I thought they were de rigeur,” Eslingen said.
“It’s not always like the broadsheets,” Steen answered. “Dad liked keeping his secrets secret.”
Eslingen’s heart sank. If Old Steen hadn’t kept any record of what he’d done with his treasure, they were beaten before they’d started. Rathe would figure it out, he told himself, and lifted an eyebrow. “Surely he had to take into account the possibility that something might happen to him,” he said. “He wouldn’t have wanted the gold to be lost entirely.”
“You’d think not,” Steen answered. “But it would be in his goods if there was anything, and—she’s got them. But that’s what I wanted to tell you. Jesine—Dame Hardelet—I pointed out van Duiren to her, when we were collecting witnesses, and she said she knows the woman under another name. As far as she knows, Dame Costanze van Duiren is Dame Amielle Delon, and she owns a counting house in Point of Knives. A counting house that employs no clerks, and is almost never open for business, but she pays the rent and keeps stout locks on the doors. What do you say to that?”
“It’s interesting,” Eslingen agreed. “Very interesting.”
“Jesine said she just thought Delon was a fence, there’s dozens of them in Point of Knives. But I say she’s keeping her real business there.” Steen leaned forward. “And I say we should raid the place, see what she’s got in her coffers.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Eslingen said.
“Why not? We could be in and out again before she knew what hit her.”
“Except she would know,” Eslingen said. “Granted, she’s probably got more enemies than just you and Caiazzo, but right at the moment, you’re the first one she’ll point fingers at.”
“Then what, we should just do nothing?”
Eslingen shook his head. “Let me tell Rathe, have him put a watch on the place. We might find out more that way than if we just go crashing in without any idea what she uses the place for. Not to mention the points have the rights to break down a door or two if it comes to that.”
“You really think he’d do it?” Steen asked.
“He wants to know what’s going on,” Eslingen said. “He’ll do it. I give you my word on it.”
Steen nodded slowly. “I’ll hold off, then. But if it comes to court without any more than this—I’ll have to act, Eslingen.”
“Understood,” Eslingen answered.
To Rathe’s surprise, Eslingen was more than punctual, arriving at the eating house before the appointed time. The day had turned fair, and they took their meal into the back garden, where the chance of eavesdroppers was diminished. The vines that adorned the brick walls were already turning scarlet, and Rathe eyed them with a certain melancholy. They seemed all too emblematic of this relationship, brilliant and delightful, but all too soon to fade. And that, he told himself, was the worst sort of theatrics—even the crowds at the Bell would scorn such melodrama.
“Any luck?” he asked, and made himself meet Eslingen’s eyes with a smile.
Something that might have been worry eased from the other man’s face. “Not with what I went to ask,” he said. “Apparently Old Steen didn’t believe in treasure maps or sharing information. And Young Steen’s witnesses are numerous but not what I’d call convincing. But I did find something interesting. His boss knows Dame van Duiren under another name entirely. And she has a counting house that’s never seen to do much business, yet somehow still survives.”
“That is interesting,” Rathe said, once Eslingen had gone through the details. “And I’d guess she’s right, your Dame Hardelet—”
“Oh, most definitely not mine,” Eslingen said, with a smirk. “She’s courting Young Steen, and I think she’ll get him.”
“Also interesting, but not to the point,” Rathe said. “She’s probably right, van Duiren’s a fence, and that’s where she changes her money when she has to.”
“So presumably that’s where she’ll manage this business,” Eslingen said. “It stands to reason she won’t want anything associated with herself as van Duiren, there’s too much chance Caiazzo would find out and tangle all her businesses in the courts. What do you want to wager that she’s got Old Steen’s papers there?”
“It’s possible,” Rathe said.
“So maybe we should make sure,” Eslingen said. “Sneak in, take a quick look round—”
Rathe shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “Once we do that, she’ll know we’ve found the place. She’s bound to have wards on the place, magistical and not, and—well, I’m good, but I’m not good enough to be sure I can reset them perfectly.”
“What about b’Estorr?” Eslingen asked.
“He’s a necromancer, Philip. He doesn’t do locks.” Rathe paused. “Not as far as I know, anyway. And even the best lockpicks leave signs. How do you think we call half our points?”
Eslingen lifted a hand, acknowledging the point like a fencer admitting a hit. “And here I thought you’d have an expert ready to hand.”
“Sadly, no.” Rathe drained the last of his wine. “Though if it comes to that, there are tools—but no matter. We’ll put a watch on the place, certainly. One of the apprentices, maybe, or a junior, someone van Duiren’s unlikely to have noticed. That should give us an idea if she’s using it for this business. In the meantime, though—we do need to talk to Istre.”
“I thought you said he didn’t do locks,” Eslingen said, and fished in his purse for the money for his meal.
“He doesn’t.” Rathe tossed his share of the reckoning onto the table. “But he does understand about gold, and what he doesn’t know—he’ll know who we should ask.”
“Are you back on that again?” Eslingen demanded. “I tell you, Caiazzo’s not interested in politics. The government suits him just fine the way it is.”
“And I believe you,” Rathe answered, though a part of him wasn’t entirely sure. “But I’m going to have to answer to the Surintendant sooner or later, and I want to rule out politics before then.”
They made their way across Temple Bridge toward the Pantheon and Temple Fair, Eslingen lagging only a little behind as they passed along the row of printers’ shops on the east side of the square. Checking the broadsheet horoscopes, Rathe knew, and kept his own gaze turned resolutely away. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by unlicensed printers, and particularly not ones printing under Caiazzo’s coin. They passed through the Northgate and made their way into the University grounds. The winter term was well begun, and the streets were crowded with students in their short gray gowns, worn open over every possible combination of fashion. That was against University rules, Rathe knew, and he wasn’t surprised to see various of them pause at the doorways of the lecture h
alls to do up a minimum number of buttons before rushing inside.
b’Estorr, like most of the senior masters, had his lodgings on the University grounds. Rathe led them across the open courtyard, scattering a flock of gargoyles scrabbling at a pile of gardeners’ waste, and knocked at the porter’s door. He expected b’Estorr to be at classes, but to his surprise, the porter said he was in, and a few moments later the necromancer himself appeared at the top of the stairs to beckon them up. His rooms were comfortable, parlor and bedroom and study as well as the necessary, but, as always, Rathe felt a faint chill at the back of his neck as he came through the door. No natural chill, that, not on a warm autumn day, but the presence of b’Estorr’s personal ghosts, gathered during his service with the late king of Chadron. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eslingen’s eyebrow wing upward as he felt the same touch, and hoped the Leaguer wouldn’t say anything inappropriate.
If b’Estorr saw, he ignored it, and waved them toward the chairs that stood beside the unlit stove. “I’ve just had tea brought up,” he said. “It should still be hot enough.”
Eslingen shook his head, but Rathe accepted the offer, settled into the more comfortable of the two chairs b’Estorr kept for visitors. b’Estorr poured himself a cup as well, and looked quizzically from one to the other.
“What brings both of you to me?” he asked, and Rathe thought there was a distinctly wary note in his voice. “I didn’t think you were allowed to work in harness these days.”
“Is it that obvious?” Rathe asked, and b’Estorr nodded. Eslingen looked faintly abashed, and brushed at his hair as though an insect had landed there. b’Estorr frowned, seeing that, and made a small gesture with his left hand. The chill faded, almost reluctantly, and Rathe knew the ghosts had been warned to stand further off. From Eslingen’s unhappy look, he knew it, too, but Rathe pretended he hadn’t seen.
“Anything that makes Hanselin Caiazzo join forces with the points and requires my attention….” b’Estorr let his voice trail off. “Let’s just say it makes me nervous, especially after this summer.”
“And there’s an unholy echo of this summer in the business,” Rathe said, “which I’d like to rule out as quickly as possible. In confidence, Istre—”
“My word on it,” b’Estorr said quickly.
“—there’s a chest of gold missing, gold that’s never been taxed, and two dead men into the bargain.”
“So far,” Eslingen said.
“There’s a cheery thought,” Rathe said. “Yeah, so far. And I’m wondering—I know that aurichalcum, queen’s gold, it’s magistically pure, and so it has power. That’s why the queen keeps possession of it herself, or doles it out to trusted associates.”
“Well,” b’Estorr began, and stopped at Rathe’s look. “Well, yes. That’s the theory.”
“I know there’s a certain amount of license given to the University, and I know there’s some queen’s gold circulating illegally,” Rathe said. “That’s not what I’m interested in. This missing gold, being untaxed—I wondered whether it had any similar properties?”
“Now there’s an interesting question,” b’Estorr said. “Technically—well, no, that’s not really true. All coin is bound to the realm by the design on its face, Chenedolle’s coin to Chenedolle, Chadron’s to Chadron, the League’s to their individual cities, and so on. Foreign coin ought to be inherently somewhat unstable, and I assume that the tax and the tax mark is intended to bind it somehow, but I don’t really know. I don’t generally use royal metals in my work.”
“Who does, then?” Rathe asked. “And who can tell me about the taxes?”
“You want one of the Fellows,” b’Estorr said. “The Royal Fellows. They’re in charge of metallurgy and related arts. And of all of them—Caillavet Vair is your best bet.”
“All right,” Rathe said, doubtfully, and b’Estorr smiled.
“You’ll like her, Nico. She’s very like you.”
Chapter Four ~ The Royal Metal
Vair did not live in the University precinct, but further north, where the city’s buildings thinned out to make room for larger houses. It was a long walk, outside the usual range of the city’s low-flyers, but a pleasant one, the afternoon sun dipping into the west, the waning light gilding the dusty streets. The trees were changing here, too, green giving way to gold and russet-brown, and as they made their way into the wealthier neighborhoods, where the minor nobility mingled with the most successful merchants, the air had the heady smell of turned loam and the whiff of burning leaves. Rathe opened the front of his jerkin, enjoying the warmth, and saw that Eslingen was smiling.
“What?” Rathe asked.
Eslingen tipped his head to one side. The brim of his hat shaded his face, but couldn’t hide the mischief in his expression. “You know, this Mistress Vair—she doesn’t know we’re coming.”
“She does,” Rathe said. He knew where this was going. “Istre sent a runner.”
“Yes, but she doesn’t know when we’ll get there.” Eslingen nodded to their right, where a painted banner stirred in the lazy breeze. It marked the entrance to a wine bower, one of the garden establishments that flourished through the long summer. There would be musicians and dancing in the evenings, and the clock round there were private rooms, screened by curtains of flowering vines. Rathe shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Business first.”
Eslingen laughed. “What about after?”
“After?” Rathe grinned. “As long as you’re paying. I’m a poor pointsman, Philip. You’re in private service.”
“I’d count it coin well spent,” Eslingen answered, not quite lightly enough, and Rathe looked away. That was the skeleton at the feast, the certain knowledge that they’d have to part when the job was over. And maybe we won’t, he thought. As long as we’re discreet, as long as we’re careful not to mix our respective businesses—but even if they could manage it, no one would believe he was unaffected. Caiazzo could fee a pointsman with other things than coin. Maybe he could persuade Eslingen to leave Caiazzo’s service, could loan him the coin to keep him over the winter—better still, let him stay the winter, there was room enough, though there was no telling if Eslingen would be willing to accept that great a favor. Or if it would be wise—they might not suit that well, after all, and then where would they be?
Rathe shook the thought away, and managed a quick smile. “It’s your money, Lieutenant.”
Vair’s house lay just at the edge of the suburbs, where the houses were separated by fields where cattle grazed, and they had to step from the road to make way for an ox-drawn wain piled high with hay. It was a long, low building that looked as though it might have been a barn or a threshing house before the city came to meet it—perhaps belonging to the stone house a little further up the road, it had the look of a manor. It was not the sort of place Rathe would have expected to find a Royal Fellow—they generally lived in more state than this—but perhaps Vair needed space for a workshop. The girl who answered the door admitted that Maseigne was at home, and led them into a sun-washed parlor. The room was nicely furnished, a pleasant mix of old and new, but the floors were bare stone.
“Maseigne,” Eslingen murmured. “Do you think she deserves the title?”
Rathe glanced around the room again, gauging the quality of the furniture. There was a crest carved into the back of one tall chair, though he didn’t recognize the design, and same crest appeared on a set of silver-bound faience plates that stood in a tall cabinet. “I’m beginning to think she might.”
The maidservant reappeared, and dropped the barest of curtsies. “Maseigne will see you. If you’ll come with me?”
“Of course,” Rathe said.
She led them down a short hall that ran the width of the narrow house, and emerged into an old-fashioned solar, its long windows looking out into a walled formal garden, its late-blooming flowers severely confined to stone-walled beds. It was a style Rathe had never much favored, but it fitted with the antique
feeling of the house. Vair herself sat in a patch of sun between the windows, her back to them and her face in shadow.
“The pointsmen, Maseigne,” the girl announced, and withdrew, closing the door gently behind her.
Rathe bowed, aware that Eslingen’s gesture was more elegant, and came on into the room. Now he could see why the floors were bare, and why the garden was so formally tended: Caillavet Vair sat in a wheeled chair, the skirts of her gray gown folded around her like a blanket. Her hands were free of both rings and paint, but the Fellows’ collar across her shoulders was jewel enough.
“Adjunct Point Rathe and Lieutenant Eslingen,” she said. “Istre b’Estorr says I should assist you.”
Her tone was neutral, if anything merely idly curious, and Rathe gave her a sharp look. It was never wise to underestimate any member of the University, and she was clearly no exception.
“That’s right,” he said. “I—we—are looking for information about the royal metals and how they work. Gold in particular.”
“I would have thought you’d learned all you needed to know about that this summer,” she said, with a fleeting smile. “Please, be seated.” She waved to the tambours that stood against the wall.
“Thank you, Maseigne,” Eslingen murmured, and pulled two of them closer to her chair.
“I know more than I did about aurichalcum,” Rathe said, “but not much at all about ordinary gold, at least not in a magistical sense. Whether it can be used in the same ways as aurichalcum, for example.”
Vair tipped her head to one side. Her hair was confined by a lace cap and a strand of pearls, with a single larger pearl at the center parting of her hair. “I could spend most of the afternoon sharing a great deal of interesting but possibly irrelevant information, or you could tell me what you really need to know.”
Point of Knives Page 7
