Point of Knives

by Melissa Scott

  “The most important thing is catching the person who killed Grandad and Old Steen,” Rathe said. “And if that wasn’t van Duiren, she knows who did.”

  And without the coin, no one else would be able to find the missing chest. Eslingen nodded. “All right.”

  They put the room to rights and blew out the candles before retreating to the hallway. Rathe busied himself reapplying the wax seal to the door—not a perfect job, Eslingen thought, but it would certainly pass in the dim light. He turned to the storeroom, pushed back the door, pleased to find the hinges well-oiled, and looked inside. There was no window, but there were counters where they could wait, and with the door half open they had a decent view of Grandad’s door. Rathe came to join him, carrying the dark lantern, and Eslingen stepped back to let him in.

  “What if they come in through the windows?” he asked.

  Rathe shrugged. “I doubt they will—if they’re going to slip a bar, might as well use the door, it’s easier. But if for some reason they do, we’ll hear them. Grandad’s door’s only held by the wax.”

  That made sense. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait? I don’t have your experience in these matters.”

  “Well, if it was me,” Rathe said, “I’d break in between sunset and second sunrise, when everything’s nice and dark.”

  “Soon, then,” Eslingen said, and slid the lantern’s shutter closed.

  Rathe’s voice came out of the dark. “Yeah. So be ready.”

  Rathe rested his hips against the counter, every shift of weight seeming thunderous in the silence. Behind him, he heard Eslingen sigh, and then the counter creaked as it took the Leaguer’s weight. He slipped his hand into his pocket again, running his thumb over the rough surface. Altheim’s coins were crudely made, but this one would serve its purpose, would lead anyone who knew the spell to the missing chest and its contents. Eslingen had backed off once, but they’d have the discussion again, he knew. If he gave it to Monteia, Mirremay would claim at least a half share; if he gave it to the Surintendant—well, he’d be going over Monteia’s head, depriving her of the reward, and would earn an enemy where he couldn’t afford one. If only there was some way to lose the damn thing. Eslingen would never consent to that, though, and he dragged his mind back to the moment.

  Van Duiren had to be coming soon, he thought. It was getting close to second sunrise, and the winter-sun still gave enough light at this time of year that surely someone would see anyone who tried to break in through a locked alley gate. Unless she wanted to wait until much later, when she could assume everyone was abed—but the winter-sun was even brighter then, and Point of Hopes patrolled here regularly. No, by all sense, she should have been here by now.

  Unless he’d gotten it completely wrong. He winced at the thought, made himself go back over his reasoning. Van Duiren wanted the gold—probably to sell it to rogue magists, but that wasn’t all that important. What mattered was that she could get her hands on it, and for that, she needed the key that Old Steen had left with his father. Presumably she had known about that, or she wouldn’t have killed Grandad—

  He swore under his breath. There was one other way that she could get her hands on Old Steen’s goods, and on all of them, not just things he’d left with his father. The court had impounded them, yes, but the marriage lines were good enough to convince; if Caiazzo hadn’t posted his complaint, Young Steen’s case wasn’t solid enough to justify keeping a man’s goods from his lawful wife. And Caiazzo—he’d agreed to stay out of things just a little too easily. What were his exact words? I won’t be anywhere that Dame van Duiren can complain of. And of course she couldn’t complain of his presence, if he was meeting her at her behest.

  I got it wrong. I’ve gotten it all wrong, and Hanselin Caiazzo is going to die because of it.

  He controlled his racing thoughts, reached for the lantern and snapped the shutter open.

  “What?” Eslingen slid off the counter, lifting his pistol.

  “If Caiazzo was going to meet someone, make a deal, a trade, where would he go?”

  “What?” Eslingen said again.

  “Think, damn it!” Rathe shook himself. “Philip, I got it wrong. Van Duiren’s not coming here, she’s going to kill Caiazzo. How else can she get control of Old Steen’s goods?”

  For what seemed an eternity, Eslingen stared at him, and then Rathe saw him take a deep breath. “If Caiazzo’s really meeting her—I’d guess the Snake and Staves, by the Causeway. It’s a neutral spot.”

  Rathe swore again. That was at the easternmost edge of the city, too far to walk—maybe too far even in a low-flyer. But they had to try.

  He sent Eslingen ahead to find a low-flyer, stayed just long enough to lock the doors, then headed after him. At the crossroads, he looked around, hoping against hope to see a runner or a patrolling pointsman, but there was no one in sight.

  “Nico!” Eslingen leaned down from the step of a low-flyer, and Rathe caught his arm, hauled himself aboard. The low-flyer jerked into motion, and Eslingen opened the trap to give directions to the driver. Rathe saw the man nod, then heard the crack of the whip as he urged his horse to greater effort.

  The streets were relatively quiet in the hour or so of darkness between sunset and second sunrise, but the docks took full advantage of the extra hours of light, and as they made their way deeper into Customs Point, the low-flyer slowed to a trot and then to a walk. Rathe swore again, leaning out the door to judge their progress. Ahead, the street was filled with stevedores, carrying frames on their backs, shifting goods from a warehouse to a dray pulled by a team of four horses. Other wagons were getting through, but not quickly, and the air was full of shouted orders and the whistle of the carters’ men.

  “Damn it!”

  “We’re not far now,” Eslingen said. He opened the trap, tugged at the driver’s coat. “Let us down here!”

  The driver pulled the low-flyer to a rattling halt, and they scrambled out, Eslingen handing up the coins for the fare.

  “Which way?” Rathe asked, and the Leaguer pointed.

  “That way. Where Sorrows crosses the Customs Road.”

  They shouldered their way past the warehouse, Rathe quickening his pace as soon as they were clear of the crowd. The streets were still active, lamps and mage-fire glowing in about half the warehouses, merchants-venturer inventorying their final cargoes, or preparing a last run before the weather broke. Rathe could smell the river, mud and tar, and guessed the tide was on the turn.

  Eslingen turned south onto Sorrows Street, away from the river and into a neighborhood where the houses were further apart and backed onto marshy fields. The Snake and Staves was a larger building, three stories with a separate stable that backed onto the marsh, but the ground floor shutters were all closed, and only a few dim lights showed in the upper windows.

  “Oh, Astree,” Rathe breathed. “Philip—”

  “It’s all right,” Eslingen said. “They’ll be out back.”

  If they’re here at all. Rathe swallowed the words, and followed the Leaguer across the stable court, glad to feel dirt underfoot instead of betraying pavers. The stable, too, was closed up tight, no sign of hostlers or servants stirring anywhere.

  “He’s here,” Eslingen said, softly, as if he’d read Rathe’s mind. “Caiazzo pays for his privacy.”

  And paid well, too, Rathe guessed. Only a sizable sum would persuade an innkeeper to close up so thoroughly at such a relatively early hour. He only hoped it wasn’t going to backfire.

  Eslingen caught his sleeve, and pulled him into the shadow of the inn’s side wall. “There’s another barn out back, on the edge of the marsh. That’s where he’ll be.”

  “Lookouts?” Rathe asked.

  “There should be,” Eslingen answered, “but I don’t see any.”

  Maybe he’s not here. Rathe killed that thought, and eased closer to the inn’s back wall. Sure enough, there was a small barn, perched on the edge of one of the marsh channels—an excellent way
for visitors to arrive unseen, or for disposing of inconvenient things, he thought. There was a bench by the closed door, but it was empty—and then his eyes focused on the bundle that lay beneath it, half in and half out of its shadow. Frowning, he reached for his glass, and in its circle, the shadow resolved itself into a body, one leg sprawling into sight. “There was one, at least,” he said, and pointed.

  Eslingen swore. “I don’t see anyone else,” he said. “We’ll have to chance it.”

  Chance crossing open ground in the full light of the winter-sun, Rathe thought, with no way of knowing who might be watching from within. “Lovely,” he said.

  Eslingen drew his pistols, brought them both to full cock, the sound of the hammers loud in the still air. “Go.”

  Rathe took a deep breath and launched himself from the shadows. Any second, he expected a shout, or the crack of a pistol, but he fetched up against the barn’s rough wall without incident. He pressed his ear against the wood, thought he could hear muffled sounds from within, but nothing clear. He edged toward the window, but it was shuttered from the inside. He waved to Eslingen, and a moment later the Leaguer had joined him.

  “Is there another way in?” Rathe asked.

  “Around the back,” Eslingen answered. “There’s a dock….”

  Of course there was, and equally surely van Duiren’s men would be watching it, but it was a marginally better choice than trying to get in the main door. Rathe saw the same awareness in Eslingen’s eyes, and the Leaguer shrugged.

  “Let’s go,” Rathe said.

  They slipped along the side of the building, ducking under the single window. It, too, was shut fast, shuttered from within, but there was definitely a sound of voices. Rathe cocked his head, straining to hear, but could make out nothing useful. There were two speakers, a man and a woman—at least he’d guessed right, he thought, and waved Eslingen on.

  The Leaguer took two steps, and stopped abruptly, the barrel of his pistol to his lips to enjoin silence. Rathe froze, and Eslingen mouthed, “Guard.”

  Damn it. Rathe said softly, “How many?”

  Eslingen held up a single finger. He started to take a step forward, but Rathe caught his sleeve, pulling him back into the shadows. He drew his truncheon instead, and Eslingen nodded, flattening himself further against the wall to let Rathe past. Rathe peered carefully around the corner. Yes, there he was, a big man in a sailor’s short coat and wide trousers, his attention on the rising winter-sun and the channels webbing the marsh. Rathe hefted his truncheon, judging the blow, and stepped out onto the dock. The wood cracked under his step, and the man started to turn, but Rathe brought his truncheon sharply across the side of his head. The man sank with a breathy moan, and Rathe caught him before he hit the ground.

  “Philip!”

  Eslingen slipped forward, helped drag the man into the shadows. Rathe felt for a pulse at his neck, found one, weak and thready, and pushed himself upright. The wounded would have to wait, unless…. He looked sharply at Eslingen.

  “Tell me he’s not one of yours.”

  “Never seen him before in my life,” Eslingen answered promptly, and Rathe gave a sigh of relief.

  “Right, then.” Rathe stepped back onto the dock and eased up to the single narrow window. The shutters were closed, but not properly latched, and he could just see a sliver of the lamp-lit room, hear the rise and fall of voices. He could see Caiazzo’s magist Aicelin Denizard standing to one side, her hands lifted to show them empty and unthreatening; beyond her shoulder, he saw a flicker of something dark, probably Caiazzo’s coat, but the figure stepped back out of sight before he could be sure. He could just see the edge of another woman’s skirt, and a man’s leather-clad shoulder, and guessed that was van Duiren and at least one henchman.

  “What are you, stupid?” That was Caiazzo’s voice. “Do you have any idea how closely the University is tracking gold these days?”

  Rathe glanced over his shoulder. “Does the door have a bar?”

  Eslingen shook his head. “Lock only.”

  Thank Astree for small favors. Rathe turned back to the window. Van Druien had moved slightly, and now he could see that she had a double-barreled pistol in her hand.

  “I’m getting the gold,” she said. “You had your chance.”

  She lifted her hand, and Rathe swore. “Philip! The door!”

  Eslingen braced himself, and gave the door two solid kicks. The lock snapped, the door flying back, and they burst together into the room. The man in leather turned, reaching for his knife, and Rathe brought him down with a single blow of the truncheon. There was a second man, he saw, and a third, both carrying swords. Eslingen fired once, brought down the most distant man before he could draw his sword, and immediately leveled the second pistol at van Duiren.

  “Don’t move, Dame.”

  She brought the pistol up anyway, almost in reflex, then swung the barrel toward Caiazzo. Eslingen pulled the trigger, but his pistol missed fire, just a puff of smoke from the lock. Eslingen reversed it instantly, and in the same moment Caiazzo moved, one hand going to his sleeve and coming out with a thin knife. He flung it expertly, and van Duiren staggered, both barrels firing wide. She fell backwards, clawing at the knife in her throat, and lay still.

  “Hold it right there,” Rathe said, to the third man, who dropped his sword and lifted both hands.

  “I didn’t want any of this, pointsman—”

  “Tie him up,” Rathe said, and Eslingen hastened to obey, using the man’s neckcloth to secure his hands behind his back.

  “Just in the nick of time,” Caiazzo said, straightening his sleeves.

  “Well, I, for one, am grateful,” Denizard said, and there was a definite note of reproof in her voice.

  “And so am I,” Caiazzo said. “But they cut it a bit close.”

  “If you’d mentioned you had plans beside staying home—home where you’d have been safe, by the way,” Rathe said, “I might have gotten here sooner.”

  Caiazzo waved a hand, dismissing the subject. “And all for nothing. The bastard sank his money, and there’s no telling where it’s gone.”

  “Sank it?” Rathe asked.

  “There was a note in his effects,” Caiazzo said.

  “Which neither of you was supposed to have access to,” Rathe said.

  “Oh, really, Adjunct Point.” Caiazzo grinned, unrepentant. “You can’t expect anyone to take that seriously.”

  “Yes, actually, I do,” Rathe said.

  Caiazzo ignored him. “There was a note for his son, warning him to keep his nose out of the business because he—Old Steen—had sunk the chest in the marshes.” He glanced at the broken door, the channels beyond, and shook his head. “It’s lost for good, I’m afraid.”

  Rathe could feel the coin, a weight in his pocket, caught Eslingen giving him a wary look. He returned a stern glare, willing him to keep silent, and said, “Pity, that. But at least no one’s going to stand a point tonight.” He looked at Denizard. “Magist, would you rouse the house? Have them send someone to Customs Point, tell them to send as many men as they can spare.”

  “At once,” Denizard said. She stepped over van Duiren’s body, unlocked the front door, and disappeared into the dark.

  “Master Caiazzo, if you’ll wait here.” Rathe moved toward the back door, and Caiazzo lifted his head.

  “Eslingen. Go with him.”

  “Absolutely,” Eslingen said.

  Rathe walked out onto the dock, all too aware of Eslingen at his side, stopped at the end, where the water still lapped against the pilings.

  “You’ve got the damn coin,” Eslingen said. “Give it to him.”

  “I can’t.” Rathe shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the metal rough under his fingers. “Philip, you know I can’t.”

  “He’s going to use it to fund his caravans,” Eslingen said. “You know that.”

  “Yes, probably, though there’s nothing to stop him selling it to the magists—” Rathe stopped,
silence by Eslingen’s lifted eyebrow. “All right, yes, he’ll fund his caravans. It’s still illegal.”

  “So are you going to give it to Mirremay?” Eslingen demanded. “That would be utterly and entirely legal, and she’d use the reward to make her little fiefdom even stronger. But that would be according to the law.”

  “It would be,” Rathe said. The gold was lost, sunk in the marsh where it was unlikely anyone would find it except by happenstance. He could afford to lose the key as well. He turned the coin over again, slipped it from his pocket. It glinted dully in the winter-sun’s light, a disk no wider than the joint of his thumb. He squinted into the dark, seeing the pale glimmer of light on the water of the channels. “It would still be wrong.”

  He flung the coin out into the night, as far and as hard as he could throw it, saw it catch the light once, and then heard the splash as it landed somewhere in the brackish water.

  “No,” he said, “I’m not giving it to anybody. Let the whole damn thing stay there and rot for all I care. At least it’ll do no harm.”

  “If Caiazzo finds out—or Mirremay—” Eslingen shook his head.

  “Or Monteia, or the Surintendant,” Rathe said. “Or Vair. Are you going to tell them?”

  Eslingen shook his head again. “Not me. But you’re a dangerous man to know, Adjunct Point.”

  Rathe turned back toward the barn, and Eslingen fell into step at his side. “You could stop knowing me.”

  “That was the agreement.” Eslingen stopped abruptly, and Rathe turned back, frowning.

  “What?”

  “I don’t particularly want to,” Eslingen said.

  Rathe sighed. “No more do I. It’s not practical, Philip.”

  “We’ll think of something,” Eslingen said. It was more optimism than Rathe thought was warranted, but it warmed him nonetheless.