He folded the papers and tucked them into the cuff of his coat as he saw Rathe approach. The pointsman had shed his jerkin and truncheon, looked like any other southriver laborer in his rumpled coat and worn breeches. He looked a bit out of place, Eslingen thought, but no worse than the carter at the table in the corner: a man meeting friends of higher station, that was all.
“Any news?” he asked, as Rathe pulled out his chair.
“Some.” Rathe reached for the wine that stood ready and poured himself a glass. “Biatris—the apprentice I had watching van Duiren’s counting house—says it’s in use, and that Delon is definitely the same person as van Duiren. She comes mostly in the late afternoon or evening, and rarely stays long. She’s usually gone by sunset and always before second sunrise. Biatris hasn’t seen her meeting with anyone, but she thinks van Duiren’s been expecting someone the last day or so.”
Eslingen frowned. He was starting to recognize Rathe’s moods, would have expected him to be more pleased than this. “But?”
“Monteia’s ordered Biatris off the job,” Rathe said. “And I’ve been warned off as well. It seems the counting house is in Point of Knives.”
Eslingen lifted an eyebrow. “I thought the crossroad—Lanyard Road?—was the boundary.”
“It and Cockerel Row, yes. And so it is, in general practice,” Rathe answered. “But the official writ runs one street further west, and Mirremay is claiming it.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.” Rathe gave a sour smile. “I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and say she’s angling for the reward, but—it’s inconvenient.”
“Very.” Eslingen topped up their glasses.
“I do have an idea,” Rathe said, after a moment.
Eslingen gave him a wary look. He was beginning to suspect that not all of Rathe’s ideas were as reasonable as they sounded on first hearing. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Rathe said again. “Biatris says the woman across the street rents rooms on her second floor. If we were quick and reasonably discreet, we could take one of those rooms, and the odds are fairly good that Mirremay’s pets won’t spot us.”
Eslingen turned the idea over carefully in his mind, but couldn’t see anything immediately wrong with it. “All right, that could work.”
“We’ll go tomorrow early,” Rathe said. “My guess is van Duiren won’t be active then, and Mirremay’s people will slink home to report.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Eslingen said.
They made their way through the side streets, avoiding Lanyard Road and the cross street until Rathe scouted ahead and reported no sign of Mirremay’s people. The counting house was closed, its windows shuttered, but the house opposite was open, and a woman sat in the sun outside the main door, shelling peas into a bowl. Eslingen rested his hand on Rathe’s shoulder.
“Let me. If any of Mirremay’s people are still watching, I’m Caiazzo’s man. She can take it up with him.”
Rathe hesitated, then nodded. “Rent a front room. If it’s clear, open the shutters. I’ll join you then.”
“Right.” Eslingen handed him the basket he had been carrying—it held a jug of tea and a bottle of wine, bread and a pie for the long watch—and started briskly up the street.
The woman looked up at his approach, and Eslingen doffed his hat. “Good morning, dame.”
“Morning—soldier?”
Eslingen bowed. “Just so. And on leave, and wondering if you still rented rooms. A friend of mine said you might.”
“I do,” she said.
“It was a particular room I wanted,” Eslingen said. “One that overlooks the street.”
She gave him a measuring look—summing up, Eslingen thought, just how much damage he and his lover were likely to do to the room, whether points would be called, and whether his money was good, and then shrugged one shoulder.
“There’s a front room available. But the furniture’s extra.”
“I don’t need much,” Eslingen answered, with perfect truth. “And I don’t know how long I’ll stay.”
She nodded. Her hands never slowed, stripping the peas from their pods. “A seilling a day, and another for a bed and mattress.”
“Not per day,” Eslingen said.
She shook her head grudgingly. “For a week, if you stay so long.”
“Throw in a couple of stools, and it’s done.” Eslingen gave her his most winning smile.
She lifted an eyebrow, but nodded. “Agreed. Payment in advance, soldier.”
Eslingen fished in his purse, came up with the coins. “I’ll be back within the hour, dame.”
They spent the time at a teahouse, sadly not in the well-tended garden, but in the smoky main room, where Rathe could, with effort, peer out the shutters and catch a glimpse of van Duiren’s counting house. Eslingen lifted an eyebrow, and Rathe shrugged.
“I can’t afford to get in bad with Monteia just at the moment. And Monteia can’t afford to annoy Mirremay.”
“Awkward,” Eslingen agreed.
“And if I were Mirremay, I’d want my people back watching by now.”
“They’ve been there all night,” Eslingen said, in what he hoped were soothing tones. “Surely they need some sleep.”
“Damn it.” Rathe let the shutter close. “Apparently not. I just saw Chaudet wandering up the street.”
“Damn,” Eslingen said. “All right. I’ll take the room and you can come in the back door.”
“You’re not exactly unrecognizable,” Rathe said.
“It’s a different coat,” Eslingen said. He’d decided he didn’t want to risk his best clothes on this particular assignment. “And I’ll let my hair down.” He suited the action to the words, taking off his hat and loosening his hair from its tie.
Rathe lifted his eyebrows. “You look—dissipated.”
“Why, thank you, Adjunct Point.” Eslingen grinned. “Perhaps we could arrange to make it less of a pretense?”
“We’ve a watch to keep,” Rathe answered, not without regret, and the nearest tower clock struck the quarter hour.
“The room should be ready,” Eslingen said, and picked up the basket, tucking it under one arm. A different coat, hair loose and untidy, a common-looking basket in his hands…. “Well?” he asked, and Rathe nodded.
“You’ll do. Open the shutter when you’re settled and I’ll come in by the garden door.”
Eslingen saw no sign of Mirremay’s people as he made his way up the street, felt none of the prickle at the back of the neck that meant someone was paying too close attention. The landlady was within, but her maidservant handed him the key and promised to let his lover in the kitchen door so that his mistress wouldn’t know how he was spending his day off. The room itself was much as he’d expected, the sort of room he’d commandeered a hundred times on campaign, bare and faintly dusty, with a heavy bedstead in one corner piled with what proved at the touch to be a straw mattress. Fairly fresh straw, at least, he thought, and pulled back the shutter for the signal.
He left the basket in a shaded corner, and dragged one stool to the side of the window, so that he could see the street and the counting house without being seen. A few minutes later, Rathe arrived, slipping the maidservant a coin and bolting the door behind him.
“What in Astree’s name did you tell them?”
“That you were houseman to an elderly merchant resident who was enamored of your manly charms,” Eslingen answered promptly. “And desperately jealous. But I saw you from afar, and managed to seduce you away for these few days of my leave, but we don’t dare be seen for fear you’d lose your place.”
“Idiot.” Rathe shook his head. “That wasn’t even a good play.”
“I got it out of a broadsheet,” Eslingen answered. He shifted so that he could lean against the wall and still keep an eye on the street. “What now?”
“This is the boring part,” Rathe answered, and dragged the other stool to the opposite side of the window. “We wait.”
&nb
sp; “Ah.” Eslingen scanned the street, empty except for a lop-eared dog nosing at a puddle beside the wall opposite. Even as he watched, the dog lifted its head and trotted off. Eslingen sighed. “For how long?”
Rathe grinned. “Until something happens. Or until we’re sure nothing’s going to happen.”
“Lovely.” Eslingen rested his head against the wall. “We could play cards—”
Rathe shook his head. “I don’t carry a deck.”
“Dice?”
Rathe shook his head again. “Besides, we don’t want to be distracted.”
“Which rules out my next suggestion,” Eslingen said, with a grin.
“If you can keep watch under those circumstances, I’ll be offended,” Rathe answered.
“All right, probably not,” Eslingen conceded. “Still, it would make the time pass.”
“No,” Rathe said.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Rathe paused. “How in Tyrseis’s name did you end up a soldier?”
“I ran off to be a horseboy in a mercenary regiment when I was thirteen,” Eslingen answered promptly. “It was better than being a horseboy in an inn for the rest of my life. At least there was a chance of promotion. How’d you end up a pointsman?”
Rathe shrugged. “We lived near the station at Point of Hearts when I was a boy. I began as a runner, just looking to make a few demmings, and discovered I was good at the work. And I liked it. One of the local advocates paid my ’prentice-fee, and—that was that.”
It was on the tip of Eslingen’s tongue to say something about Rathe’s stars, but he swallowed the words. Rathe was right not to tell him, and it was his right to keep the secret, and that was the end of it. “And evidently the chance of promotion is just as good as in the regiment,” he said instead, and Rathe shrugged.
“Good enough. Though I got this post early, I’m likely to stay an adjunct point for quite a while.”
They lapsed into silence. Eslingen watched the shadows turn and lengthen, stretching across the dusty street. Mirremay’s people paid the neighborhood another visit, pacing the length of the street, but didn’t stay, and by the time the clock struck four, they’d disappeared again. After a while, Rathe shared out some of the bread and tea. Eslingen took his share, more to have something to do than because he was hungry, and then, as the sun settled behind the chimney pots, he cut them both wedges from the pie. It was excellent, and Eslingen was debating a second slice when he saw Rathe straighten.
“Van Duiren.”
Eslingen checked the impulse to lean forward to look, waited instead until she came into his field of view. Sure enough, it was the woman who had claimed to be Old Steen’s wife, though she was dressed now in a plain skirt and bodice, a long sleeveless coat open over the rest of the outfit.
“Pawnbroker’s coat,” Rathe said, and Eslingen glanced at him.
Rathe grinned. “It’s got hidden pockets and a few spells woven in, or most of them do. The dishonest ones will palm your goods and give you back a reasonable facsimile that will last just long enough for them to get away.”
“The things I learn from you….” Eslingen shook his head..
On the street below, van Duiren fumbled with her keys, first the main lock, and then a smaller, inner lock. She pushed back the door and disappeared into the shop, and a few moments later the shutters began to open.
“Isn’t it a bit late in the day to open a counting house?” Eslingen asked. “I’d think keeping the doors open after sunset would be an invitation to trouble, with second sunrise not coming for another hour—especially if she keeps cash on hand.”
“It would be, normally,” Rathe said. “But if she’s a fence, she’s got connections that will protect her—not least of which would be Mirremay—or this is just the place where she has the preliminary meetings. Or she’s up to something else entirely. But, no, I don’t really expect to find your gold in there.”
“Pity, that,” Eslingen said, and stopped abruptly. “Look there.”
“I see him.” Rathe fumbled in his purse, came up with a small telescope, the kind artillerymen used to train their guns. He focussed on the stranger, a man in a scholar’s long robe, and shook his head as the man ducked into van Duiren’s shop. “Well, that’s something to tell Maseigne Vair. A Demean by his hood, too, though I didn’t get a decent look at his badge.”
“The badges are—?” Eslginen cocked his head.
“What branch or house he’s affiliated with within the University,” Rathe answered.
“Seems a bit unsubtle to go walking around like that,” Eslingen said.
“Yeah, the thought had crossed my mind,” Rathe said. “It could be a decoy—wait, hello.”
This time Eslingen did risk leaning forward just a little. A woman was coming down the street, a well-dressed woman in a neat brimless cap, a closed parasol balanced on her shoulder. Rathe had his glass out, peering through it as she paused at the counting house door, and Eslingen heard the sigh of satisfaction.
“Faculty of Sciences and Herathean House. Even if I hadn’t gotten a good look at her face, that will help identify her.”
Eslingen looked back at the counting house. Lamps glowed in its windows as the dusk closed in, the hour of full dark between the setting of the true sun and the rising of the winter-sun. Occasionally a shadow moved across the light, but it was impossible to see any details. All too soon, it seemed, the front door opened again, and the two scholars left together, the woman using her parasol now as a walking stick.
“Do we follow?” he asked, and Rathe shook his head.
“Too late, damn it. I should have thought.”
A moment later, the last of the lamps went out, and Rathe swore under his breath. Van Duiren emerged a moment later, carefully locked the doors behind her, and started away in the opposite direction. Rathe shook his head.
“Well, at least we know she’s using the place for meetings—and that there’s a University connection. Maseigne Vair will be glad to know.”
Eslingen took a deep breath. “Maybe Young Steen had the right of it.”
Rathe looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Well, not quite the way he’d do it,” Eslingen amended. “But he thought we should break in and search the place—him and me, he meant, not you and I.”
“That’s illegal, you know, Lieutenant.” Rathe shook his head. “And I can’t think of a better idea.”
The front of the counting house was hopelessly exposed, but there was bound to be a back door, if only for the night-soil man. Rathe found the alley without difficulty, and stepped into its deeper shadows. In the darkness, Eslingen’s shirtcuffs seemed unnaturally bright, and Rathe was glad of his own oversized coat. It wasn’t fashionable, but it did help to hide his presence. He touched Eslingen’s shoulder.
“It’s the fourth house on the left,” he said softly, and saw the other man nod.
They picked their way along the rutted street, through mud that smelled of rotting cabbage, and Rathe glanced over his shoulder at the houses behind them. Fortunately, the alley was only used for garbage, and the smell meant that most of them kept their doors and windows shut tight, and Rathe turned his attention to the counting house door. It bore a massive lock with a tiny keyhole, the kind of magistically warded lock that its maker’s guild proclaimed “unbreakable” and he made a sour face. The only good thing was that it probably meant the door wasn’t barred as well.
“And how do you propose to get past that?” Eslingen asked. He looked up at the windows on the upper floor. “I could probably climb in there, but it wouldn’t exactly be subtle.”
Rathe reached into his purse again, came up with the ring of keys he’d had made from the wax impressions he’d taken from Old Steen’s belongings. He held them up in the dim light, studying the wards, chose three that looked as though they might fit. It was likely he’d have to resort to picks, or his universal key, but he thought there was a chance Old Steen might have been twisty eno
ugh to have keys to this back door. He tested them quickly: all the right size, one even magistically active, but none were meant for the particular lock. He put them away, and pulled out his universal key. Well, not exactly his; he’d taken it off a serial burglar who’d plagued Point of Hopes some four years past, part of the man’s elaborate and magistically active toolkit. All of it had been slated to be melted down to keep it from falling into improper hands, but that had seemed a waste of something so cleverly made as the universal key, and Rathe had discreetly pocketed it. Three or four more items had gone missing, all equally useful and Monteia had said nothing when they didn’t reach the fire.
“This should do it,” he said, and turned the bezel at the top, setting the solar and lunar positions in the tiny orrery. The key chimed once, the sound almost inaudible, and he adjusted the size of the wards to fit the opening.
“That’s never standard issue,” Eslingen said.
Rathe snorted. “Not hardly.” He slipped the key into the lock, probing for the tumblers. He could feel the warded lock resisting, the key sliding from the spelled surface, but then the key’s magic caught and coiled in the gaps of the ward, easing it away, and the key slipped securely into the tumblers. Rathe turned it carefully, gave a sigh of satisfaction as the lock gave way. He pushed gently, hoping there was no bar, and the door swung open before him.
“You continue to amaze me,” Eslingen said, and together they slipped inside.
Rathe closed the door softly behind them, and they stood for a moment in the dark, listening for any sign that they were not alone. There was nothing, no sound, no breath of air, not even the smell of cooking, just the faint bitter scent of a stove long unused and uncleaned. Eslingen moved first, his eyes adjusting to the light, and Rathe heard the gentle clicks as he tested the shutters.
Point of Knives Page 10
