Point of Knives

by Melissa Scott

  “And a bottle of good wine,” Eslingen called after him, but the pointsman was gone. Eslingen shook his head, not sure whether he wanted to laugh or curse. Only Rathe, he thought, and settled himself to wait.

  Rathe paid for a better dinner than he could generally afford, had it delivered to Eslingen’s cell as a token of apology. He didn’t quite have the courage to see how it was received, however, and concentrated instead on his own plans. Mirremay was happy enough to loan him apprentice and runners, enough to set a careful watch on van Duiren, but for the bulk of the day she stayed close to home. Her own physician came and went—looking annoyed, the runner reported—and various large young men were making their presence known at the doors, but otherwise she was staying home and resting, as one would expect after an attack.

  “Which does make me wonder just a bit,” Mirremay said, with a thoughtful look at Rathe. They sat in her workroom at opposite ends of the long table, a pile of slates and scraps of papers between them.

  Rathe shrugged, refusing to be goaded. “Eslingen wasn’t knifing Dame van Duiren last night, chief. I can attest to that.”

  She looked for a moment as though she was going to make an obscene quibble, then shook her head. “Be that as it may, she’s not exactly doing anything actionable now. In fact—”

  “I know,” Rathe said. “She’s doing exactly what you’d predict.” He pushed himself away from the table. “But this is her best chance to get at either the gold itself, if she knows where it is, or whatever it is that tells her where Old Steen hid it.”

  “That’s pushing it, Rathe,” Mirremay said. “All the papers, hers and Caiazzo’s, have been impounded by the judge.”

  “Not all of them,” Rathe said. “Dame Lulli—she was Grandad’s landlady—she had papers that belong to both of them. I sealed them in Grandad’s room, and they’ve not been sent for. The judge said to leave them there.”

  “You’re sure?” Mirremay asked.

  Rathe nodded. “I sent a runner to double check. I’ve warned Dame Lulli, and she’s taking herself and her people off for the night, leaving the house for us. That’s where I think van Duiren’s going.”

  “You’d better be right,” Mirremay said.

  “I know,” Rathe said, and let himself out of the workroom. And if he did find gold or the key to it—what then? He couldn’t just let Eslingen take it, though in many ways that might be the least complicated solution; he didn’t really want to let Mirremay claim the reward, either, but she would be in her rights to claim a share, and Monteia wouldn’t stand against her. It might be better if he didn’t find anything, except that then it would be hanging over their heads, missing gold ready to cause trouble…. He shook his head. There was one more errand to run before he could release Eslingen and set his trap, and he couldn’t pretend he was looking forward to it. But the tower clock was striking three, and there wouldn’t be time to get to Customs Point and back before dark if he didn’t hurry.

  Caiazzo’s house was expensively plain, the stone corner pieces brought by barge from Courtheim, the wood of the door polished mahara from the Silklands, the brass fittings beautifully cast and scrupulously polished. As always, Rathe felt even more disheveled than usual as he turned the bell-key, and drew himself up to his full height as a maid neat as a pin drew the door back. Caiazzo was southriver born, for all his current wealth; they were two of a kind.

  “Adjunct Point Rathe, to see Master Caiazzo.”

  She bobbed the slightest of curtsies. “Yes, Adjunct Point, he was expecting you.”

  I was afraid he might be. Rathe swallowed the words as too revealing, and followed her up the broad central stair to Caiazzo’s workroom.

  Caiazzo’s clerk hurried past them on the landing, and Rathe was unsurprised to find the merchant venturer alone in the paneled workroom. The afternoon light slanted in the long windows, warming the space and raising the smell of beeswax from the polished wood.

  “So,” Caiazzo said. He was standing at one end of the counter, very neat in an expensive suit of dark green wool. His hair was cropped as short as a working man’s, incongruously so, but then, Rathe thought, Caiazzo was always a practical man. “I hear you’ve called a point on the man I sent to help you.”

  Words and tone were unexpectedly moderate, but Rathe still took a moment to consider his answer. “I did,” he said at last.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m not,” Rathe said. That earned a lifted eyebrow.

  “Go on.”

  “You’ve heard this already,” Rathe said.

  Caizzo grinned. “In point of fact, I have, or at least some of it. But I’d like to hear your version.”

  “It’s simple enough,” Rathe said. “I want the person who killed Grandad and his son. If it’s not van Duiren, though I think it is, she knows who did it. If she thinks your knife is out of the picture, she’ll make her move—she has to, because she’s not going to win the court case.”

  “No more is she,” Caiazzo said. “But what makes you so sure the courts haven’t already impounded whatever it is she’s looking for?”

  “If they had, she’d be trying to make a deal with you,” Rathe said.

  Caiazzo nodded slowly. “Fair enough. So what brings you to me?”

  “Three things,” Rathe said. “First, I wanted to tell you myself what had happened with Philip—with Eslingen.”

  “Which I appreciate,” Caiazzo said.

  “And I wanted to warn you that tonight might be a good time to stay at home, among witnesses. I’d very much prefer that your presence be accounted-for, so van Duiren can’t make any wild claims.”

  “That’s very…tactful,” Caiazzo said.

  Rathe shrugged. “I want a clean point, or I wouldn’t bother. And I am serious. Whatever she’s after, you’re better off not involved, and with an alibi that even your own advocates couldn’t break.”

  “I always take you seriously, Adjunct Point,” Caiazzo said. “And I promise you, I won’t be anywhere that Dame van Duiren can complain of.” He paused. “So. That’s two. What’s your third?”

  “You paid Eslingen’s bond to keep his pistols here,” Rathe said. “I want them. And his shot and powder.”

  Caiazzo’s narrow eyebrows rose sharply, but he moved to the end of the table, rang a silver bell that was standing there. A few moments later, an older man appeared—the house steward, Rathe guessed. Caiazzo reached under his coat, came up with a small ring of keys.

  “Go to Lietenant Eslingen’s rooms, and bring back the case of pistols he keeps there.”

  The steward bowed stiffly and disappeared again. Caiazzo looked at Rathe.

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I hope not,” Rathe answered. “But….”

  “In that case,” Caiazzo said, “I will be doubly careful to stay out of your way.”

  The steward returned with a polished wooden box, bound in brass and fitted with a solid lock.

  “I’d open it for you,” Caiazzo said, with irony, “but Eslingen has the only key.”

  “I’m shocked” Rathe answered, and Caiazzo lifted a hand, acknowledging the hit.

  “Don’t get my knife killed, Rathe. He’s actually good at his job.”

  The steward led Rathe back to the main door—no one was going to leave him unobserved for a moment in Caiazzo’s house, no matter how much their interests currently ran parallel—and he tucked the box under his arm, wondering if it was obvious to everyone that he was carrying a brace of pistols. At least Caiazzo seemed inclined to take him seriously, and that meant that he and Eslingen could concentrate on stopping van Duiren—although there was something about Caiazzo’s attitude that left him worried. The man was always cocksure, but rarely this calm about something that touched his business so nearly, and he’d given up the pistols far too quickly. Was this all some plan of his? Had he already given orders for Eslingen to kill the woman if he got a chance?

  Rathe shook his head. That wasn’t outside of possibi
lity, at least not where Caiazzo was concerned, but he couldn’t see Eslingen going along with it. And murder was business for an outside knife anyway, with no household ties, not the public bodyguard. Still, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was missing something.

  Dinner had arrived with a table and chair, and an unlocked door so that Eslingen had access to the necessary without having to shout for a guard. Of course, the door at the end of the wing of cells was still locked, so it was a cheap concession, but he wasn’t going to complain too loudly. At least not until Rathe was there to listen.

  He cut himself another sliver of the onion tart, less because he was hungry than because he was bored, and set it down untasted as he heard the outer door open. A moment later, Rathe pushed open the cell door. Eslingen’s eyes went instantly to the familiar box under his arm.

  “You’re expecting trouble?”

  “I think we should be prepared.” Rathe’s tone was grim.

  Eslingen lifted an eyebrow at that, but took the box, reached into his purse for the key. “Maybe you should explain what you have in mind,” he said, and seated himself on the foot of the bed.

  “I think she’s going to break into Dame Lulli’s tonight,” Rathe said. “That’s the place she can get at that she hasn’t searched.”

  “Then shouldn’t we be searching it first?” Eslingen asked. He opened the box, took out the pistols and the powder flask.

  “We’ll do that, yes,” Rathe said. “Now that Mirremay’s given me permission to break the seals. But I want van Duiren.”

  Eslingen folded the patch around the ball and rammed it home. “Just you and me?”

  Rathe nodded. “Mirremay isn’t that convinced I’m right. And van Durien fee’d her to look after her interests.”

  “That seems awfully convenient,” Eslingen said. He rammed home the second ball, and checked to be sure both weapons were safely at half-cock.

  “Yes, Mirremay would prefer that any awkward consequences fall on me,” Rathe said. “And, no, she’s not going to send us at the head of half-a-dozen strong points. Thus the pistols.”

  “Right,” Eslingen said. “I can’t say that I’m reassured.”

  “At least we can be sure Caiazzo won’t be in the way,” Rathe said, and snagged a piece of the tart.

  “Oh?”

  “I told him what we were doing,” Rathe said, somewhat indistinctly. “And told him to stay home.”

  “Let’s hope he does it,” Eslingen said.

  “If he doesn’t, then any points called are his own damn fault,” Rathe said.

  They made their way to Dame Lulli’s house as the day-sun was brushing the tops of the houses, their shadows stretching long behind them. Lulli herself was waiting at the alley door, let them in to the back garden. She looked both weary and afraid, Eslingen thought, and Rathe treated her with care.

  “Grandad’s room is as you left it, Adjunct Point,” she said, as she led them down the dark hallway. “And since you chased off the bailiffs, no one’s made inquiries, bar a woman from the judge. But I’ve kept my man on duty day and night, and hired a second to help him.”

  “That’s probably why you haven’t had any trouble,” Rathe said, with a fleeting smile.

  “At what I’m paying him, I should hope so,” Lulli answered. “Do you want the loan of one or both of them? You might find them useful.”

  “No, thanks,” Rathe answered. “It’s better if we keep it a points matter.”

  “As you please,” Lulli said. She fished under her skirts, and came up with a ring of keys. “This is for all the house,” she said, and began to name them, Rathe nodding attentively. Eslingen let his attention wander, surveying the parlor and the other rooms off the hall. The house was sturdily built, not the sort of place where the mere thrust of a pike could break open the shutters, and he allowed himself to relax just a little. If Rathe were right about van Duiren’s plans—and that was his job, to know what people like her would do—they stood a decent chance of stopping her, particularly if they could take her by surprise.

  Eslingen watched from the back door as Rathe escorted Lulli to the alley gate, and then barred the door behind him as he returned. The bar looked sturdy, and he looked at Rathe.

  “I thought you wanted her to get in.”

  “I do.” Rathe tested the bar, and nodded. “But we can’t make it look too easy. A burglar’s jemmy will lift that without much trouble.”

  “If you say so,” Eslingen said, and Rathe grinned.

  “It’s a bit like my universal key. You have to be a bit of a specialist to want one, but—they do work.”

  Eslingen shook his head. “Now what?”

  “First we get set up,” Rathe said. “And then we take a look at Grandad’s things.”

  Grandad’s room was toward the back of the house, across from the pantry. It had probably once been a second storeroom, Eslingen guessed, but it was a convenient place to put a man who minded the door and lit the first fires in the mornings. The lock was covered with a huge blob of wax, marked with an imperfect impression of the seal on Rathe’s truncheon. Rathe lit the dark lantern, though he left the shutters open, and drew his knife, holding the blade to heat in the flame.

  “Another unsuspected talent,” Eslingen said. He slipped his pistols out of the bag that had concealed them, and checked the priming powder.

  “Don’t tell me you never stole anything in all your days soldiering,” Rathe said.

  “We never worried about hiding our tracks,” Eslingen said.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t, at that,” Rathe said. He held the knife’s blade close to his palm to test the temperature, then slid it behind the knot of wax. The hot blade slid a little way and then stuck. Rathe pulled it free, reheated it, and tried again. It took a dozen passes, heating and reheating the blade, before the wax gave way. Rathe caught it in his cupped hand and set it carefully aside. He looked into the room, checking that the shutters were still sealed, and then picked up the lantern. Eslingen followed him into the room, one pistol in his belt, the other ready in his hand.

  The space was definitely a converted storeroom, still smelling faintly of candles and Silklands spice. It was comfortably furnished, a curtained bed wedged into one corner, a chest at its foot, and there was a small table and a pair of chairs against the opposite wall. Their paint was shabby, but the cushions were new, as were the bedcurtains and the neatly folded blankets. His house altar was a traveling shrine hanging above the table, the double doors folded shut. Eslingen opened them carefully, saw without surprise that small statues of Oriane and Seidos flanked an incense burner shaped like the Sea-bull. A small candelabrum stood on the table, and a lamp hung at the head of the bed: ship-shape, Eslingen thought, every inch of space put to good use, and everything tucked carefully away.

  Rathe was already kneeling by the chest, universal key in hand, and a moment later lifted the heavy lid. There was a tray inside, and Rathe lifted it out, checked quickly through the clothes below it before lowering the lid gently into place.

  “Nothing else in there,” he said, and rose to set the tray on the table.

  Eslingen set his pistol aside and lit the candles, and together they went through the miscellany that Grandad had accumulated. Most of it was unimportant—a few pieces of jewelry, an ivory statue of a Silklands dancer, one foot cracked and broken, an oiled purse that held a handful of larger coins—and Rathe shook his head.

  “Nothing.”

  “The papers?” Eslingen pointed to a bundle tied with blue string, but Rathe was already picking at the knot.

  “They look like letters,” he said, and spread them on the table. “No, hang on, I’ve got some contracts here, old ones—and I think these are charts. Take a look.”

  Eslingen took the packet eagerly, unfolded the sheets in the overlapping circles of the candle’s light. “Charts, yeah, but for Silklands ports. Nothing in Astreiant—nothing even in Chenedolle.” He folded them back together, frowning. “Young Steen said
his father didn’t make maps.”

  “I know,” Rathe said. He shook his head. “And it looks like he meant it. Nothing here that’s of any use.” He retied the string around the bundle. “But if Old Steen wasn’t leaving something with his father, why kill the old man?”

  “Because he was a witness?” Eslingen asked.

  “If you wanted to avoid witnesses, all you’d have to do was wait until Old Steen left the yard,” Rathe said. “That way you wouldn’t have to worry about someone in the house seeing you. There has to be something here.”

  Unless you’ve gotten it all wrong, Eslingen thought, but that was something he couldn’t say. Rathe frowned again, staring at the accumulation of material, then reached for the pouch of coins. He spread them out on the table, turning them each heads up, and in spite of himself Eslingen leaned closer. They were mostly larger silver coins, and mostly foreign, a pair of Chadroni demi-marks, silver staters from half the cities of the League, and Rathe picked out the gold, sliding them away from the others. It was a tidy hoard, Eslingen thought: a Silklands gold-pillar as long as a finger-joint, a notched Chadroni kingsmark, an Altheim stater that looked bright and new. Even as he frowned at the thought, Rathe reached for the stater, turning it in the light.

  “This is it,” he said. “Look, no customs mark.”

  Eslingen took it from him. Sure enough, the stamp was missing, and he cocked his head at Rathe. “All right, this may well be from Old Steen’s cargo—”

  “I’d lay money it is,” Rathe said. “The other coins are all marked.”

  “But what good is one coin?” Eslingen handed it back.

  “Doctrine of Resonances,” Rathe said. “The part can stand for the whole, right?”

  “Right.” Eslingen knew he sounded doubtful.

  “I’ve seen this before,” Rathe said. “With the right spell—which I don’t know, but any competent magist can deduce, it’s a well-known class of spells—you can use one object of a group to lead you to all the others. This one coin will lead us to the rest.”

  “Then let’s pack this up, and go find it.” Eslingen knew before the words were out of his mouth that Rathe wouldn’t buy it, but he went on anyway. “Come on, Nico, surely the most important thing is to secure this untaxed gold before some dubious magist tries to turn it into cut-rate aurichalcum.”