““Stallions quarrel in a field,’” he read, “‘but do no harm.’”
Rathe blinked, then shook his head. “Do you think this counts, or do we have something more to look forward to?”
“I’d like to think this was it,” Eslingen said, “but from everything you said about this Mirremay….”
“Yeah,” Rathe said. “Somehow I doubt it.” The tower clock at the end of the Leathersellers’ Hall struck the half hour, and he allowed himself a sigh. “And it’s time to be getting on with it.”
“Lovely,” Eslingen said, but tidied the remains of breakfast back into the basket. Rathe swallowed the last of his tea, and crossed to the pegs by the door to collect his truncheon and leather jerkin. It wasn’t often he needed to wear both, but he wanted the protection both of his badge of office and leather cured hard enough to turn a blade. He turned, still tugging the last laces home, to see Eslingen settling his coat onto his shoulders. It was second-hand, made over to fit, but it took a careful eye to see where the cuts had been made. A line of braid covered where the hem had been let down, blue-black on indigo, and the buttons and the fittings of the belt that held his knife were at least false silver. And, Rathe noted, the knife itself was a good two inches longer than the city’s legal limit. Eslingen saw where he was looking, and shrugged.
“Surely you’ll stand bond for me, under the circumstances?”
“I suppose I’ll have to,” Rathe answered. He slipped his own knife onto his belt—the legal length and no more—and worked his shoulders to settle the jerkin more comfortably. “I’m not planning to cause trouble,” he said.
“No more am I,” Eslingen answered promptly. “But I believe in being prepared.”
“Right,” Rathe said, with a certain amount of skepticism, and started down the stairs.
They followed Customs Road east towards Jascinte’s Well, where the territories of Hopes, Sighs, and Knives all met. Rathe paused at the fountain in the center of the open square to draw himself a cup of water, and let his gaze sweep across the broad space. Things seemed quiet enough, the pens between the two wings of the Drovers’ Hall empty except for a sleeping dog and a gargoyle scrabbling in the near-empty mangers, the shops unshuttered and ready for business, though only a few women were moving in the street, baskets over their arms. Eslingen took the cup and drank as well, leaning close to slacken the chain that pinned the cup to the carved stone.
“Just how much trouble are you expecting?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Rathe admitted. “It all depends on Mirremay.”
Eslingen gave him a look, and set the cup back in its niche. “I could wish you were a bit more certain, Adjunct Point.”
“If it all goes wrong, I’m counting on you to run for help,” Rathe said.
“Yes, but to whom?” Eslingen unobtrusively loosened his knife in its sheath.
That was an excellent question, Rathe admitted. Properly speaking, the answer should be the nearest points station, which would be Point of Sighs, but practically speaking that would involve complicated explanations and might take time they wouldn’t have. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—Caiazzo, he’d be the fastest.”
Eslingen nodded. “And he has a few connections in the area.”
Rathe winced. It was all too easy to imagine the riot that would result. “I’m really hoping to get out of this without any fighting.”
“I hope you can,” Eslingen said, doubtfully, and Rathe sighed.
“Let’s go.”
He led the way through the narrowing maze of streets toward the armory that had been converted to the station at Point of Knives. This was the first part of Astreiant built outside the walls, on the south bank of the Sier away from the safe, respectable parts of the city. The first theaters had been here, but quickly moved to Point of Dreams; it had also been home to the first merchant-venturers, and the buildings still bore the stamp of the caravan-trade, built low and long around narrow inner courts where goods could be kept until they were carried across the river. There had been windmills, too, though that trade had moved still further east into Customs Point, where there were fewer buildings to block the onshore winds.
Rumor had it that Mirremay had spent a fair amount of her own coin turning the old building into something more like a regular points station, and certainly there seemed to be new wood and brick on every part of the façade. The clock tower, too, was new, built into an afterthought of a gable, and Rathe gave it all an unhappy glance. If Mirremay had paid for most of this herself, it was another reason she’d be in need of coin.
The main door was closed, and Rathe frowned. That was against general policy, though if Mirremay had upset the population that far—but, no, there was an inner door, and it stood partly open. Rathe tugged the bell rope anyway, listening for the bell’s distant clatter, but before he could push the inner door back, Eslingen spoke at his shoulder.
“Nico.”
Rathe glanced over his shoulder, and swallowed a curse. Three men and a woman were converging on them, and the street was suddenly empty, barren of witnesses and help alike. He took a step away from the door, not wanting to be caught against the station wall, and saw Eslingen do the same. The strangers carried pointsmen’s truncheons, and the woman wore her jerkin open over a neat russet skirt and bodice, but Rathe couldn’t see them as friendly.
“What station, friend?” the woman asked, and pointed to Rathe’s hip with her drawn truncheon.
“Point of Hopes,” Rathe answered. “I was hoping for a word with the Head Point.”
The title was a mistake, he knew it as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and the biggest of the men scowled.
“Don’t know why the chief would want to see you. And who’s he?”
Eslingen spread his hands slowly, showing them empty, but at the same time clearing the skirts of his coat in case he had to draw his knife. “My name’s Eslingen.”
“Client?” the woman said, to Rathe, who shook his head.
“He’s working with me on a problem we’re having. And I was hoping the chief might be able to help us out.”
“That sort of request ought to be made properly,” the woman said. “In writing.”
“The matter’s urgent—” Rathe began.
“It’s not respectful,” the big man said.
Rathe swallowed a curse. “There’s no disrespect meant,” he said. “I’d just like to have a word with Mirremay.”
“Chief Point Mirremay.” That was another of the men, fair-haired and wiry, and Rathe dipped his head in acknowledgement.
“Chief Point Mirremay,” he said.
“I don’t believe she wants to see you,” the woman said. “Send a proper request, pointsman, and we’ll see.” She waved her hand toward the street. “That’s your way.”
“I don’t want to make trouble,” Rathe said, “but, as I said, the matter’s urgent. I don’t have time to send a request and have it sent back five times on points of procedure. And it’s Adjunct Point. If we’re talking titles.”
The big man snarled and took a step forward, but the woman lifted a hand. Eslingen froze, his hand not quite reaching for his knife, and Rathe slid his own hand toward his truncheon. Behind them, a woman laughed.
“Chaudet, you overstep. Our colleagues are always welcome in Point of Knives. Particularly Adjunct Point Rathe.”
Rathe turned, slowly, not wanting to take too much attention away from the group in the street. “Chief Point Mirremay.”
“Head Point,” she corrected, with a smile. She was small, with a ripe figure, and knowing eyes in a heart-shaped face. “And of course you’re welcome, you and the lieutenant. Come inside, and tell me how I can be of service.”
Rathe looked at Eslingen, seeing the same reluctance in the Leaguer’s face. To walk into what could very easily become a trap—but surely Mirremay had more sense than to attack her colleagues. He, at least, would be missed, be looked for, though not as quickly as he would be if h
e were on regular duty; it was a serious risk, even for an entire chest of gold. He hoped to hell Eslingen’s horoscope would cover both of them.
“Thank you,” he said, and Mirremay took a step back, pulling the door fully open. Rathe stepped through, aware of Chaudet’s eyes on his back, and hoped they weren’t making a serious mistake.
Mirremay’s workroom was unexpectedly pleasant, with glass in the windows and a painted stove in one corner. Her broad table was piled high with ledgers and case books and random drifts of paper; there was a stool at one end, ready for a secretary to take dictation, but the secretary herself was nowhere in sight. Mirremay leaned her hip against the table’s edge, not bothering to ask them to sit.
“So, Rathe,” she said. “What brings you here, with your black dog at your heels?”
Rathe saw Eslingen’s eyebrows rise at that, but kept his own expression neutral. “Two murders, Chief Point.” As you very well know. This time, she did not correct him.
“That’s your business in Point of Hopes,” Mirremay said promptly. “Monteia’s made that quite clear.”
“And yet it was your seal on a bailiff’s writ I handled just yesterday,” Rathe said.
“Ah, but that is my business,” Mirremay said. She was enjoying this entirely too much, Rathe thought. “The lady resides in Point of Knives, and her legal recourse is my responsibility.”
“Even when her title to those goods is very much in question?” Rathe tipped his head to one side.
“That’s a matter for the courts, not me.”
“And when the bailiff’s men come bullying honest householders,” Rathe said.
“How can I tell which bailiff’s men will exceed their authority?” Mirremay asked. “If Point of Hopes has a method, I’m not too proud to learn.”
They could fence like this all day, Rathe thought, and her people would still be waiting when he and Eslingen left the station. Better to cut matters short. “There’s a political dimension to this, you know.”
Mirremay snorted. “Everything’s political these days.”
“Some things more than others,” Rathe answered.
“Make your point, Rathe.” Mirremay sounded almost amused, but Rathe was not deceived.
“The gold is untaxed,” he said. “I’m sure van Duiren mentioned that there was coin involved, possibly even that it was gold, and maybe even that it hadn’t paid the right dues, but have you thought about what that might mean, in the current situation?”
A faint frown appeared on Mirremay’s face. “Go on,” she said.
Rathe nodded to Eslingen. “He’ll back me up on this. We’ve taken advice from the University on the matter, and untaxed gold can function like aurichalcum. It’s weaker, but still dangerous, especially in large amounts. And after this summer—you can guess how the Surintendant is taking it.”
“And who he might suspect,” Mirremay said, with a glance at Eslingen. “Does he know who you’re working with again?”
“It’s an approved collaboration,” Rathe said, and Eslingen smiled.
“And I believe you know, Chief Point, exactly how Master Caiazzo would use foreign gold,” he said.
“I know at least one good reason that you yourself might need cash in hand,” Rathe said. He waved to the room around them. “It can’t have been cheap to bring this place up to standard.”
“We’re all very knowledgeable,” Mirremay said. “And?”
“I know why Caiazzo wants the coin,” Rathe began.
“And he’s found the right coin to fee you properly,” Mirremay said, and Rathe felt himself flush.
Eslingen said, lazily, “My principal feels the whole thing’s too hot to handle, Chief Point. In consideration of which he’s more than happy to cooperate with the points.”
“One might have expected him to turn to me,” Mirremay observed.
“I’m sure he trusts you,” Eslingen said, in a tone that implied just the opposite.
Mirremay scowled, and Rathe said hastily, “Be that as it may, Chief Point, you and Caiazzo have one thing in common. Surintendant Fourie doesn’t trust either one of you.”
“That’s hardly news,” Mirremay said.
“He’d like an excuse,” Rathe said. “And politics makes an excellent one. I respect the man enormously, but this time I think he’s wrong. I can prove it’s not Caiazzo if I have to, but you—I don’t know about you, Chief. If you’re backing van Duiren….”
“And would I tell you if I were?” Mirremay demanded.
“You’d tell me if you weren’t,” Rathe said.
“But would you believe me?” Mirremay shook her head. “Very well, Rathe, my cards on the table. First, my arrangements to fund the building here are solid and conventional and my own business. But it can be proved where the money came from, and that I haven’t bankrupted myself in the process. Second, I’m no merchant-venturer, I’ve got no use for untaxed gold. On the other hand, the Queen pays treasure-trove on such coin, a full tenth of the value, and I’d have no objection to that fee or to improving my reputation. That’s why I was willing to sign the bailiff’s writ. But I don’t hold with murder, and I can’t afford politics, and I want nothing more to do with this mess.” She gave a sudden, thin smile. “Unless you should call your point on my turf, Rathe, in which case I expect my full share of the fees and rewards.”
“Of course,” Rathe said. He thought he believed her, though he would probably ask one of the others at Point of Hopes to verify the finances—Pallanguey, maybe, she had friends among the clerks. “And I appreciate your candor, Chief Point.”
“I’m glad we’ve reached an accord,” Mirremay said. “And now—now I think we’ve wasted quite enough time on the matter.” She straightened easily. “This way, Adjunct Point.”
Rathe followed her down the station stairs and through the main room, Eslingen at his shoulder. The group that had confronted them in the street lounged by the double-stove, watchful as hounds. They were Mirremay’s chosen team, Rathe recognized, her particular favorites, bound to her rather than to the station or any other loyalty. He gave them a careful look, wanting to be sure he’d know them again, and the woman—Chaudet, the junior Adjunct—gave him a feral grin.
“And I trust this will be the last we see of you, Adjunct Point,” Mirremay said, her voice just loud enough to carry to every corner of the silent room. “Unless you come to share out the reward.”
Rathe paused in the open door. “And to that end, I assume you’ll encourage all cooperation.”
Mirremay grinned. “A touch. Of course we would be happy to work with you—to that end.”
“Thank you, Chief Point,” Rathe said, and beat a hasty retreat.
They made their way back toward Point of Hopes through increasingly busy streets—ordinarily busy, Rathe was pleased to note, but he was also sure that they were being watched. They stopped again at Jascinte’s Well, and Eslingen bought a cone of nuts from a young man with a roasting cart. Rathe looked over his shoulder, back the way they’d come, but saw no sign of of a tail. Probably the watchers had been set to see that they left Point of Knives, were even now heading back to Mirremay to report.
Eslingen held out the paper cone. “Next time you do something like that, you might warn me.”
Rathe hesitated. “I didn’t think it was going to go like that,” he admitted. “If I’d thought—yeah, I would have warned you.”
“She’s dangerous, this Mirremay,” Eslingen said. “And I thought the whole idea was to keep her from building her own little fiefdom in Point of Knives.”
“Yes, she is,” Rathe said. “And, yes, it was.”
“It doesn’t seem to have worked out all that well.”
“Not the way the Surintendant planned, no.” Rathe paused. “At least, probably not, anyway. He’s a—complicated man.”
“I don’t like ‘complicated,’” Eslingen said.
“Then you’re in the wrong business,” Rathe said.
For a moment, it hung in the ba
lance, and then Eslingen’s mouth twitched upward. “I’m a simple soldier, Adjunct Point—”
“You’re about as simple as the epicycles of Arjent,” Rathe said, and traced the looping corkscrew pattern in the air for emphasis.
Eslingen swept him a bow, graceful in spite of the cone still in one hand. “Why, that’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said about me.” He paused. “I meant it, you know.”
“I know.” Rathe said. “And next time, I will warn you. If I can.”
Eslingen lifted an eyebrow. “That’s the best you can do?”
“Yes.” Rathe met his eyes squarely. “It’s all I can promise, Philip.”
There was a moment of stillness, the business of the square moving around them, as distant as if they stood encased in glass. Eslingen shrugged at last. “So. I’ll take what I can get.”
Rathe nodded, not knowing what to say. He only hoped that he hadn’t spoiled everything.
Chapter Five ~ The Counting House
Eslingen settled himself by the tavern’s fire and unfolded the broadsheets he’d picked up on his way through Temple Fair. By mutual if unspoken agreement, he and Rathe were both avoiding places where they were known individually, which left them mostly northriver places like this one. It was pleasant enough, occupied in the early evening primarily by clerks from the counting houses and factors’ offices along the Mercandry. The prices were correspondingly higher, but it was worth it for the anonymity. No one here had cause to remember either Caiazzo’s knife or the Adjunct Point at Point of Hopes.
He bespoke two plates of the night’s ordinary, telling the waiter not to serve until his guest arrived, and turned his attention to the broadsheets. He’d bought a weekly almanac as well as a more personal sheet, and scanned it quickly, noting the positions of the major planets. The sun was in the Charioteer, and solidly aspected; the astrologer predicted quiet days and soft weather, plenty of time for the harvest and the last short-range trading ventures before winter closed the roads. His solar horoscope was equally benign, though he noted with a wry grin that the moon was in the Sea-bull, house of passion and illicit relationships. It would be nice if this affair lasted a bit longer than the moon’s transit of the sign, but somehow he doubted it.
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