“Whatever possessed her to settle here, and not in University Point?” Eslingen wiped his face, studying the sketchy job, and decided not to press his luck.
“You mean over by the Horsegate? Too much competition there.” Adriana grinned again. “As you may have noticed, Mother doesn’t like to share.”
Eslingen lifted an eyebrow at her, but decided not to pursue the comment. He reached instead into his clothes chest and pulled out his best shirt. He had managed to get it laundered, but that had done the already thinning fabric little good; he could see seams starting to give way at shoulder and cuff. There was nothing he could do about it now, however, and he was not about to make an appearance at the points station with an illegal lock in his second-best. He stripped off the shirt he’d pulled on before, pulled on the better one more carefully, wincing as he heard stitches give somewhere. He decided to ignore it, and reached for the thick slice of bread that Adriana had brought him. It smelled of sugar and spices, the sort of heavy cakebread that was common in the League. He finished it in three bites, grateful for the sharp, sweet flavor of it, and shrugged himself into his best coat. It, too, was looking more than a little the worse for wear—not surprising, after a winter campaign and then most of a summer—but he managed to make himself look more or less presentable. Adriana nodded her approval, and collected the bowl and plate.
“Better hurry, Mother’s waiting.”
Eslingen made a face, but rewrapped the pistol in the rag that had protected it, and tucked the unwieldy package under his arm. “Let’s go.”
Devynck was waiting in the inn’s main room, the caliver slung over her shoulder. The lock was conspicuously empty of match, the barrel was sheathed in a canvas sleeve, and a badge with the royal seal swung from it, but even so Eslingen blinked, trying to imagine the locals’ response to seeing Devynck stalking the streets with that in hand.
She saw his look and scowled. “Well, I’m not going to risk drawing the ball, am I? I’ll get Monteia to let me fire it off instead.”
If she’ll let you, Eslingen added, but thought better of saying it. It was safer, of course, and he couldn’t blame Devynck for not wanting to fire it in her own back garden. He could only begin to imagine the neighbors’ response to shots, or even a single shot, coming from the Old Brown Dog.
“Are you ready?” the innkeeper demanded, and Eslingen shook himself back to reality.
“Ready enough.” He held up the wrapped pistol. “I suppose I bring this with me?”
“Of course.” Devynck’s glare softened for an instant. “You won’t lose it, Philip—and if you do, I’ll stand the cost of its replacement.”
“I appreciate that,” Eslingen answered. It would be a poor second best, and they both knew it: pistols were idiosyncratic; even the ones made by the best gunsmiths had their peculiar habits, and it was never easy to replace a lock that worked well. Still, under the circumstances and given the cost of a pistol, it was a generous offer.
Devynck nodded. “Right then. Let’s go.” She shoved open the main door, letting in the morning light and the faint scent of hay and the butchers’ halls. The doorstep and the ground beyond it glittered faintly, scattered with glass from the broken windows. There were shards of lead as well, and Eslingen grimaced, thinking of the cost. He followed Devynck out the door, and looked back to see the half-emptied frames, the leads twisted out of true, the glass strewn across the dirt of the yard. With the shutters still barred behind them, they looked vaguely like eyes, and he was reminded, suddenly and vividly, of a dead man he’d stumbled over at the siege of Hirn. He had looked like a shopkeeper, the spectacles shattered over his closed eyes. He shook the thought away, and Loret appeared in the doorway with a broom, heading out to sweep up the debris.
To his relief, the streets were relatively quiet, and the few people who were out gave them a wide berth. They reached the Point of Hopes station without remark, and Devynck marched through the open gate without a backward glance. Eslingen followed more slowly, unable to resist the chance to look around him. He had never been inside a points station before—and had hoped never to be, he added silently—but had to admit that it wasn’t quite what he’d expected. The courtyard walls were as high and solid as any city fort’s, the gatehouse and portcullis sturdy and defensible, but the guard’s niches were drifted with dust and a few stray wisps of straw. The stable looked as though it had been unused for years; a thin girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, sat on the edge of the dry trough outside it, putting neat stitches in a cap. She looked up at their approach, alert and curious, but didn’t move. An apprentice? Eslingen wondered. Or a runner? She looked too calm to be there on any business of her own.
Devynck pushed open the main door, and Eslingen winced at the smell of cold cabbage and cheap scent that rushed out past her. Despite the pair of windows, the shutters of both open wide to let in as much light as possible, the room was dark, and the candle on the duty pointsman’s desk was still lit. He looked up at their entrance, eyes going wide, and quickly closed the daybook.
“Mistress Devynck?”
He had been one of the ones who’d searched the tavern, Eslingen remembered, but couldn’t place the man’s name.
“Where’s Monteia?” Devynck said.
“Not in yet, mistress—”
“Then you’d better send for her,” Devynck said, grimly, and one of the doors in the back wall opened.
“I’m here, if that helps, Aagte.” Rathe stepped out into the main room, the bird’s-wing eyebrows drawing down into sharper angles as he looked from Devynck and her wrapped caliver to Eslingen. “I take it there’s been trouble.”
Devynck nodded. “No offense, Nico, but Monteia needs to hear it, too.”
“None taken,” Rathe said, equably enough, and stepped past them to the door. “Asheri! Run to the chief point’s house, tell her she’s needed here. Tell her Aagte Devynck’s come to us with a complaint.” He turned back into the main room, a scarecrow silhouette in his shapeless coat. “Come on into her workroom—but leave the artillery outside, please.”
Devynck hesitated, but, grudgingly, set the caliver into a corner. “It’s loaded,” she said. “No match, of course, but one of the things I’ve come for is to fire it off.”
“If things were bad enough to bring out the guns,” Rathe said, “why didn’t you send to us last night?”
“They were here and gone before I had the time,” Devynck answered. “And then there seemed no point in one of my people risking the streets before daylight.”
Rathe’s eyebrows flicked up at that, but he said nothing, just motioned for the others to precede him into the narrow room. It, too, was dark, and Eslingen stumbled against something, bruising his shin, before Rathe could open the shutters. This window looked onto a garden of sorts, and laundry hung from a line strung between the corner of the station and a straggling tree. Eslingen felt his eyebrows rise at that, and realized that Rathe was looking at him.
“All the comforts of home?”
Rathe shrugged, seemingly unembarrassed. “Has to get done some time, and some of the people here can’t afford their own laundresses. So Monteia makes sure one comes in once a week.”
Before Eslingen could answer, Devynck slammed her palm down on the table, making the inkstand rattle. “Areton’s balls, what do I have to do to get the points to protect my interests? Or would the two of you rather sit here and gossip about laundry?”
“I thought you wanted to wait for Monteia,” Rathe answered.
“Which I do.” Devynck glared, but Rathe went on calmly.
“And, to get to what business I can, what were you doing with that gun of yours, Aagte?”
“How could I know they would just break my windows and run—”
Rathe shook his head. “It takes time to load one of those, Aagte, I know that. If they just broke your windows and ran, you wouldn’t’ve had time to load it. So what else did they do, and why didn’t you send to us? Or were you expecting trouble, had it
ready just in case?”
Eslingen kept his expression steady with an effort. He hadn’t expected the pointsman to know that much about guns, enough to have caught Devynck in the weakest part of her story. Most city folk didn’t, didn’t encounter them much in the course of their lives, or if they did, they knew the newer flintlocks, not old-fashioned ones like Devynck’s matchlock. Flints didn’t take as long to load—were generally less temperamental than a matchlock—but he was surprised that Rathe, who didn’t seem to like soldiers much, would have bothered to find that out. Or did the points still act as militia? he wondered suddenly.
Devynck fixed Rathe with a glare, and the pointsman returned the look blandly. “As it happened,” she said, after a moment, “I’d loaded before bed, just to be on the safe side. After your lot searched us yesterday, pointsman, it seemed wise to expect a certain amount of— awkwardness.”
Rathe nodded again, apparently appeased. “Yeah, I heard about that. Huviet’s getting above herself, wants guild office, or so I hear.”
“Not through my misfortunes,” Devynck retorted.
“I agree. But, bond or no bond, Aagte, you shoot someone, and it’s manslaughter in the law’s eyes.”
“Or self-defense.”
“If you can prove it,” Rathe said. “And with the way tempers are these days, it wouldn’t be easy.” He held up his hand, forestalling Devynck’s automatic outburst. “I’m not begging fees, Aagte, or telling you not to protect your property. But I wish you’d sent to us as soon as it happened, that’s all. I’d’ve welcomed an excuse to put Paas Huviet in cells for a night or two, think of it that way. I’m assuming he was the ringleader?”
Devynck sighed. “I think so. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I’d know the voice.”
Eslingen eyed Rathe with new respect. Not only was what he said solid common sense, it had appeased Devynck—not the easiest thing at the best of times, and this was hardly that.
Rathe looked at Eslingen. “Did you see him?”
The soldier shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I heard the shouting, but I couldn’t swear to the voice.”
Devynck made a sour face. “No, you hardly could.” She looked back at Rathe. “Does this mean you can’t do anything?”
Before he could answer, the workroom door opened, and Monteia said, “I hear there was trouble, Aagte?”
Eslingen edged back against the shelves where the station’s books were kept, and the chief point eased past him, her skirts brushing his legs, to settle herself behind the worktable. Rathe moved gracefully out of her way, leaned against the wall by the window.
“Trouble enough,” Devynck answered, and Monteia made a face.
“Sit down, for the gods’ sake, there’s a stool behind you. I’d hoped we’d nipped that in the bud.”
“I told you it wouldn’t help matters,” Devynck said, not without relish, and dragged the tall stool out from its corner. She perched on it, arms folded across her breasts, and Monteia grimaced again.
“Tell me about it.”
“We had a very slow night last night, not a single Chenedolliste from the neighborhood, and damn few of the Leaguers,” Devynck answered. “And after we’d closed up—and locked up, we’re not taking any chances these days—and were all in bed, a band of the local youth comes by and smashes in my front windows. It’s going to cost me more than a few seillings to get them repaired, that’s for certain.”
“What time was it that it happened?” Monteia asked. Rathe, Eslingen saw, without surprise, had pulled out a set of tablets and was scratching notes in the wax plates.
Devynck shrugged. “The winter-sun was well down, and I heard the clock strike four a while after. Sometime after three, I think.”
“And you didn’t send to us.”
“As I told Nico here, I didn’t want to send my people into the streets, not when I was pretty sure they were gone.” Devynck sighed. “They were drunken journeymen, Tersennes. They weren’t going to do much more damage to my property, or so I thought, after we’d scared them off, but that sort’s more than capable of beating one of my waiters if they caught him unaware. It may have been a mistake, I admit it, but I’ve my people to think of, as well as the house.”
Monteia nodded. “I gather you didn’t recognize anyone.”
“I’m morally certain Paas Huviet was the ringleader,” Devynck answered, “but, no, I can’t swear to it.”
Monteia nodded again. She took Devynck through her story in detail, calling on Eslingen now and then for confirmation—a confirmation he was only able to provide in the negative, much to his chagrin— and finally leaned back in her chair. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Aagte. I’d hoped we’d put a stop to the rumors. I’ll send some of my people around to ask questions—”
“I’ll take charge of that, Chief,” Rathe said, and there was a note in his voice that boded ill for the local journeymen.
“Good. And we’ll do what else we can. I’ll make sure our watchmen take in the Knives Road regularly.”
Rathe stirred at that, but said nothing. Even so, Monteia gave him a minatory look, and Eslingen wondered what wasn’t being said. He knew that the points were only an occasional presence on the streets and in the markets, mostly when there was trouble expected; this didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. But then, he added silently, nothing was ordinary right now, not with the children missing.
Devynck said, “Thanks, Tersennes, I appreciate what you’re doing for us. There is one other thing, though—two, really.”
Monteia spread her hands in silent invitation, and Devynck plunged ahead. “First, my caliver out there. It’s loaded, and I don’t want to ruin the barrel trying to draw it, not to mention the other hazards. So can I fire it off in your yard?”
“Gods,” Monteia said, but nodded. “What’s the other?”
Devynck jerked her head toward Eslingen. “Philip here—being a stranger to Astreiant and obviously not fully aware of its laws—”
“Of course,” Rathe murmured, with a grin, but softly enough that the Leaguer woman could ignore him.
“—has a pistol of his own in my house. Under the circumstances, rather than give it up, I’d like to post bond for him.”
Monteia shook her head, sighing. “And I can’t say that’s unreasonable, either. It won’t come cheap, though, Aagte, not with that monster you already keep.”
“I’m prepared to pay.” Devynck reached through the slit in her outer skirt, produced a pocket that made a dull clank when she set it on the worktable. “There’s two pillars there, in silver.”
Monteia made a face, but nodded. “I’ll have the bond drawn up— Nico, fetch the scrivener, will you? And in the meantime, you can fire off that gun of yours.”
The preparations for firing the caliver were almost more elaborate than for writing the bond. Eslingen lounged against the doorpost of the station, trying unsuccessfully to hide his grin as a pointswoman brought out a red and black pennant and hung it from the staff above the gatehouse. The duty pointsman recorded the event in the station’s daybook, and Monteia and Rathe countersigned the entry, as did Devynck. Rathe looked up then.
“Eslingen? We need another witness.”
“What am I witnessing to?” Eslingen asked, but went back into the station.
“That you know Devynck, that you know the gun’s loaded, that we’ve posted the flag—the usual.” Rathe grinned. “Not like Coindarel’s Dragons, I daresay.”
“We had more of this than you’d think,” Eslingen answered, and scrawled his name below Devynck’s. It did remind him of his time in the royal regiments, actually; there had been the same insistence on signatures and countersignatures for everything from drawing powder to receiving pay. It had made it harder for the officers to cheat their men, but not impossible, and he suspected that the same was true in civilian life.
“Right, then,” Monteia said. “Let’s get on with it.”
Eslingen followed her and the others out into t
he yard, and saw with some amusement that the thin girl and half a dozen other children had gathered at the stable doors. Most of those would be the station’s runners—a couple even looked old enough to be genuinely apprentices—but he could see more children peering in through the gatehouse. Monteia smiled, seeing them, but nodded to the pointswoman.
“Fetch a candle.”
The woman did as she was told, and Devynck carefully lit the length of slow match she had carried under her hat. She fitted it deftly into the serpentine, tightened the screw, primed the pan, and then looked around. “I’m ready here.”
“Go ahead,” Monteia answered, and behind her Eslingen saw several of the runners cover their ears.
Devynck lifted the caliver to her shoulder, aimed directly into the sky, and pulled the trigger. There was a puff of smoke as the priming powder flashed and then, a moment later, the caliver fired, belching a cloud of smoke. One of the children outside the gatehouse shrieked, and most of the runners jumped; Devynck ignored them, lowered the caliver, and freed the match from the lock. She ground out the coal under her shoe, and only then looked at Monteia.
“That’s cleared it.”
“One would hope,” Rathe murmured, and Monteia frowned at him.
“Right. Is the bond ready?”
“I’ll see.” Rathe disappeared into the points station, to reappear a moment later in the doorway holding a sheet of paper, which he waved gently in the air to dry the ink. “Done. Just needs your signature and seal.”
Monteia nodded, and went back inside. Eslingen looked at Devynck, who was methodically checking over her weapon. Behind her, the neighborhood children were dispersing, only a few still gawking from the shelter of the gatehouse. The runners, too, had vanished back into the shelter of the stables, and he could hear voices raised in shrill debate, apparently about the power and provenance of the gun.
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