Point of Hopes p-1

by Melissa Scott

  “Not at all, Chief Point.” This time, it was Eslingen who looked at Rathe, and the adjunct point who wouldn’t meet his eyes. Apparently, Eslingen thought, he wasn’t intending to inform the chief point of the plan to use a deputy to spy on Caiazzo. Probably as well.

  “What did the sur want, Nico?” Monteia asked.

  “Mostly to ask me if I’d found anything against Caiazzo, anything that would show he was involved.” Rathe grinned. “And to complain about the grande bourgeoise.”

  “He won’t get any argument from me on that, but this business with Caiazzo…” Monteia shook her head. “It’s beginning to sound unhealthily like an obsession.”

  Rathe sighed, almost inaudibly. It seemed, Eslingen thought, to be a standing problem between them. “I don’t think so, Chief, with respect. I think the sur is getting some information we’re not privy to, maybe from court, maybe from gods know where, but political. Because that’s the connection he keeps pushing—the succession.”

  Monteia looked askance. “Not very likely, is it, Nico?”

  Rathe sighed again, louder this time. “No, it’s not, but what am I supposed to do, tell the surintendant of points, no, sir, you’re wrong, and I won’t do it? I’ve tried to tell him, gods know. But he won’t let me off.”

  “It’s a waste of time,” Monteia said. “Aside from anything else, the last thing we need is for the families to think we’ve forgotten about them. So if you can do what the sur wants without its cutting into your real work, Nico, that would be lovely.”

  “Yes, Chief,” Rathe said. He glanced involuntarily at Eslingen, wondering if he should mention his plan to Monteia, but decided against it. It wasn’t as though he was authorizing any fees for Eslingen against the station’s expenses—that would be Caiazzo’s responsibility. Not that Monteia wouldn’t appreciate the irony, but the fewer people who knew, the better for Eslingen.

  Monteia nodded. “So be off with you, then, Nico. The council wasted enough of our time this morning. Oh, and Nico?” Rathe turned in the doorway.

  “I don’t expect to see you back here tonight, understand?”

  Rathe smiled and nodded. “Yes, Chief. And thanks.”

  She waved a hand. “Go on, get out. Good luck to you, Lieutenant.”

  Eslingen nodded, recognizing dismissal when he heard it, and followed the adjunct point out into the main room. Rathe said something, low-voiced, to the woman at the duty desk, and then slung his jerkin over the shabby coat.

  “Shall we go?”

  “Why not?” Eslingen murmured, and trailed behind him through the station’s yard into the busy street. They took the river roads, along the upper levels of the Factor’s Walk, and as he threaded his way through the busy crowd, Eslingen had to admit some misgivings. After all, was a job with a southriver-rat-made-good really what he was looking for? The man might be wealthy—was wealthy, according to Rathe, who would know—but not all of that wealth was honestly come by. That Rathe seemed to think well of him, or at least to praise him with faint damns, was something of a reassurance, but, all in all, Eslingen thought, I might have been better off staying Devynck’s knife. The towers of Point of Sighs—Point Assize, its true name was, a typical Astreianter sour joke—rose among the wharf-side buildings, and he looked away, swearing under his breath. Wiser it might be to stay a tavern knife, but Devynck wanted no part of him after last night, and there weren’t that many tavernkeepers who would hire a Leaguer and a soldier. Which left Rathe’s merchant, this Caiazzo. He could almost picture the man, the sort of gross merchant one found on the broadsheet prophecies, usually at the head of predictions involving Bonfortune and Tyrseis. He would be large and loud, his clothes rich and tasteless, canny, cunning, shrewd, but without the tact that redeemed those qualities—a bully, Eslingen thought, a man of weight who wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

  They had reached the eastern docks by then, and Rathe paused, scanning the pennants that drooped from the crowding masts. Eslingen copied him automatically, though he recognized only one of the house-signs, the blue and white stripes of Gauquier Daughters. It would be granddaughters now, or great-granddaughters, he thought, and wondered if he should change his mind now, before Rathe had gone to the trouble of an introduction. But then Rathe’s hand was on his arm.

  “See? One of Hanse’s ships was reported in this morning, so I knew we’d find him here. I wanted you to get an idea of the man, better than what I’ve given you.”

  “Marvelous,” Eslingen said, and knew he sounded less than gracious. “Thank you.” He followed Rathe through a tangle of untended handcarts, and out onto the wharf itself. It was almost as wide as a city street, but only a single ship, a tidy caravel, the sort that Eslingen had seen in every port along the southern coasts, was tied up at the dock. The pennant at its single mast was a long streamer of scarlet, a gold shape like an inverted heart at the broad end: Caiazzo’s house-sign, it had to be, Eslingen thought, and scanned the caravel’s crowded deck for the man of his imaginings. There was no one among the dozen sailors and bare-backed laborers who matched that description, and the knot of factors gathered by the hoist looked equally unlikely. A woman in a neat skirt and bodice, a blue coat with split sleeves open over it, was standing to one side, and Rathe moved toward her. Eslingen followed, and saw a magist’s bar vivid on one shoulder. He hesitated, but Rathe didn’t seem to notice.

  “Aicelin, where’s Hanse?”

  The magist lifted an eyebrow that was as grey as the feathers of the gargoyles that fought the seagulls for the dockside scraps. “Business, pointsman?”

  Rathe cocked his head. “Of a sort. He still looking for a bravo?”

  “He’s not had a lot of time to interview candidates. Why? I know you’re not offering your services, much to both our disappointment.” She glanced at Eslingen, both eyebrows rising now in silent question.

  “Lieutenant Eslingen here recently mustered out of the Dragons,” Rathe said, “and is in need of a position.”

  “Until last night, he was working at the Old Brown Dog in Point of Hopes,” a new voice said. One of the factors—not a factor, Eslingen corrected himself instantly, the fabric and the cut of the plain coat were far too good to be a mere factor’s, not a factor at all, but the merchant-venturer himself—detached himself from the group by the steadily growing stack of cargo, and came to join the magist. “Devynck’s new knife. Now, as I see it, good knives prevent trouble.”

  He smiled, showing teeth, but the expression didn’t reach his black eyes. He was a wiry man, built a little like Rathe himself, but his face was narrower, the bones of cheek and jaw stark under the olive skin. Up close, his clothes looked even more expensive, his shirt of fine linen, freshly washed and pressed, fastened at the neck with a lace-edged stock, the coat plain grey silk with only the jet buttons for decoration, but cut to flatter the slim build. He was young to be as rich as Rathe had hinted, Eslingen thought, maybe forty, but then, it took a young man to outface the law.

  “You’re remarkably well informed, Hanse,” Rathe said, sounding bored. “If you know that, you also know it can hardly be laid at Eslingen’s door, now, can it?”

  “I’d be more inclined to lay it at yours.” Caiazzo showed teeth again, but this time the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened in real amusement. “Not yours personally, Nico, but the points? Yes, I’d say they have something to answer to Devynck for.”

  Rathe looked sour. “You can leave that to Monteia and Devynck to settle between them, I think.” He shrugged. “But I thought I could at least introduce Eslingen to you.”

  Caiazzo laughed softly, and turned to Eslingen. “Known our Nico long, have you, lieutenant?” His voice was pleasant enough, still touched with the sharp southriver vowels, but Eslingen’s scalp prickled.

  “Only a week. Long enough to lose my job, though.”

  “Only a week? Gods, Nico, even for you that’s quick.”

  “The times are like that,” Rathe answered. “You’ve heard the story, I thought I o
wed Eslingen something for it, the situation not being his fault. You need a new bravo, Eslingen needs a new place… It seemed to make sense.”

  “It does,” Caiazzo agreed, and sounded almost rueful. He looked at Eslingen again, the glance frankly assessing. “Duellist?”

  It wasn’t hard to guess the required answer, not after what Rathe had told him. Eslingen shook his head. “Soldiers are rarely duellists, sir. It’s not our skill, and only fools try to do two things that well. If you want a duellist, you’ll have to hire someone else.”

  “I had a bodyguard who thoughthe was a duellist,” Caiazzo said. “What I want is a knife with brains, not pretensions.” He glanced at the magist, and Eslingen thought he saw her head tip forward slightly. Caiazzo nodded himself, decisively. “All right, Eslingen, let’s try it. Nico, I’m obliged—I think, and to a point.”

  “A little in-good-standing?” Rathe asked, demurely.

  Caiazzo’s head lifted slightly, the gesture of an angry horse, but then he had himself under control again. “I’ll think of it that way.” He looked back at Eslingen. “I’ll pay you a snake for a week, Eslingen, keep you or not, and we’ll talk wages at the end of that time. What do you say?”

  “I’m in,” Eslingen answered, and wondered if he was doing the right thing. Caiazzo wasn’t what he’d imagined, but there was something a good deal more dangerous about the trader than he’d expected.

  Caiazzo beckoned to the magist. “Aicelin Denizard, my left hand. We’ll try him for a week, Aice, see how it works?

  “Despite the doubtful provenance, I think it’s worth it,” the magist answered. Face and voice were sober, but there was laughter in her eyes, and Eslingen caught himself smiling in answer. Denizard held out a painted hand—black and silver on pale skin, intricate and unsmudged—and Eslingen took it carefully. “A pleasure, lieutenant.”

  “Mine, surely, magist,” Eslingen replied, and bent his head to her.

  “Where’s your gear, Eslingen?” Caiazzo asked.

  Eslingen nudged the saddlebags he’d set down when Rathe had spoken to the magist. “This is it.”

  “Not your weapons, surely.”

  Eslingen shook his head. “They’re at the Aretoneia.”

  Caiazzo looked over his shoulder at the caravel, and then at the group of factors. Something he saw there made his mouth tighten, but he said nothing, and looked back at the soldier. “Right, then. Aice, go with him, pay whatever bond they want—I’m sure the points will want their share—and bring him back to the house. Take the boat, I’ll be here a while.”

  And I don’t envy his factors, Eslingen thought. He glanced at Rathe, and saw the same thought reflected in the pointsman’s half smile. He held out a hand, and Rathe’s smile widened. “Thanks.”

  Rathe lifted a shoulder, but looked faintly pleased. “Like I said, I owed you this much, after last night. I wish you good luck with it.” He looked up at the sky, gauging the position of the winter-sun. “Hanse, I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Like my shadow,” Caiazzo agreed, and Rathe turned away.

  “This way,” Denizard said. “What’s your first name?”

  “Philip.” Eslingen slung the bags over his shoulder again, and followed her down to the end of the wharf where a private barge was moored. It was small, only four oarsmen and a steersman for crew, but Eslingen couldn’t help being impressed. It took money to keep a boat in Astreiant, almost as much as it took to keep horse and grooms—but then, if Caiazzo’s business took him along the wharves, then it was probably as much necessity as luxury. The steersman held out his hand to help Denizard down into the cushioned seats, and Eslingen glanced back to catch a last glimpse of Rathe as he turned away down the river road. It was just as well he’d gone quickly; Caiazzo had good reason to be wary of anything brought him by any pointsman, and Eslingen was quite sure that at least one reason he had been sent with Denizard was to give the magist a chance to gather her impressions of him, arcane as well as mundane. The thought of her ghostly investigation was enough to make him shiver a little as he stepped into the boat beside her, and he thought he saw her smile. She gestured for him to seat himself, and he did so, schooling himself to impassivity as the boatmen began to cast off. The astrologer had warned him against water—but there was no avoiding this. He was determined to give them no cause for suspicion: whatever Rathe’s motives had been, placing him here, this had the chance of becoming a decent position, and he wasn’t well off enough to risk losing it, at least not yet. If the trader was involved with the missing children, well, that would change everything, but even Rathe didn’t seem to believe that. The boat lurched against the current before the oarsmen could find their stroke, and he smiled blandly at the magist, trying to ignore his sudden unease.,

  Denizard smiled back, and fished a small silver medallion from under her bodice, cupped it in both hands. Eslingen eyed her warily, recognizing a truthstone, and the magist’s smile widened. “Now, lieutenant—Philip, if I may. Tell me about your service. From the beginning, please.”

  Rathe made his way west again along the river, skirting the Rivermarket and the warrens of the Factors’ Walk, ignoring the small twist of conscience within him. He had, after all, told Eslingen exactly why he was recommending him for the job, and what he was—and wasn’t— looking for. Nor was it entirely self-serving; Eslingen did need a job and a place to live, and Caiazzo’s service was a good deal richer than Devynck’s. And it was unlikely that Caiazzo would put him into a position that would bring him into danger, at least not yet, not until Caiazzo had decided that he could trust his new man, and by then Eslingen would have seen enough to make the decision for himself… Still, the soldier was virtually a stranger here, with little knowledge of the city and its more notorious citizens; Rathe couldn’t stop himself from feeling slightly guilty for what he’d done.

  And that, he told himself firmly, was foolish. He’d done the best he could for Eslingen, and for himself; he had other work to do before he could take Monteia’s offer and declare himself off duty. He reached into his pocket, checked his tablets. The last set of nativities—one for a girl who’d vanished from the family inn two days before Herisse Robion, the other for a boy just under apprentice-age, son of a weaver— should be ready; he could at least collect those and bring them to b’Estorr along with the rest. He glanced at the sun again, and smiled, slowly. Better still, he would send a runner to University Point and ask b’Estorr to meet him at Wicked’s. At least that way he could be sure of getting one decent meal.

  The sun was low in the sky as he finally reached the tavern, the papers with the nativities folded securely in his pocket. The building itself, long and low and old, wooden walls on a solid stone foundation, had once been a temple, though that had been generations ago, before the Pantheon had been built. On the clearest of days, with all the windows open to daylight, you could see some of the old carvings, high on the walls just below the ceilings, but those were the only lingering traces of its former life. Nor did anyone—these days, at least— consider its current use an especial blasphemy, not least because no one could remember what god it had served. There was an offering tablet, one of the blank stones that stood for all-the-gods, and a candle beside it to appease the prudish, but that was all. The name was more of a joke than anything, a typical southriver joke. Astreiant was, Rathe thought, usually a city that could laugh at itself. Only these days, people weren’t finding much to laugh at, and neither did he. But there was always Wicked’s, to put aside immediate worries.

  The crowd was still thin, though some of it spilled into the tiny front yard, shopkeeper’s girls enjoying a chance at the soft weather after a day spent within doors. Rathe went inside: the dim, cool light was more welcoming after a day spent crisscrossing the city. Though it was still early, Wicked herself sat at one end of the massive stone bar, surveying her customers dispassionately. The current Wicked—there had been at least three predecessors, Rathe knew from neighborhood gossip, though no one knew for sure if t
hey had been kin—had run the tavern for as long as Rathe had been a regular. She had been there when he’d signed his apprenticeship papers, and she was still there, not looking much different than before, though she had to be fifty if she was a day. She raised an eyebrow as she saw Rathe, and lifted a hand to beckon him over.

  “You’d better not be visiting Devynck’s troubles on me, boy,” she said by way of greeting, but the tone took away most of the sting from her words.

  Rathe shook his head, and held out empty hands. “You see before you an off-duty pointsman, hungry, very thirsty, and in extreme need of good company. So where else would I go? Beer makes people mad, Wicked, wine makes them wise.”

  “Donis help us when pointsmen turn philosopher.”

  “It’s that or run mad these days.” Rathe dropped into a chair at the table nearest to her, glanced around the room. There was no sign of b’Estorr yet, and at the moment, he found he didn’t particularly care. Wicked detached herself from the bar, and came to stand looming above him, hands on ample hips.

  “You look like something that washed up after a particularly nasty flood tide,” she said, and shrugged. “But then, it could be the coat.”

  Rathe lifted his head, then decided it wasn’t worth arguing with her, especially when he’d reached the same conclusion just that morning. “Thank you,” he said. “Might I have some wine, please, mistress?”

  Wicked snorted, but smiled, and stalked back to the bar, disappearing through the door behind it that led to the kitchens and her private stockroom. When she came out, she was carrying a tall stone bottle and two heavy glasses—real glasses, not the usual pottery cups. She set it all down on the table, and sat down opposite him.

  “Because you don’t like my coat?” Rathe asked.

  Wicked leaned forward across the table. “Because, first, I think you need it. Second, Istre sent your runner back by here to say he would be here after first sunset, and to bespeak a very nice bottle of wine that one, knows his stuff for all he’s Chadroni. And, third, even if he did and you didn’t, I wouldn’t bother. I don’t waste this on people who’d waste it. I figure you’re probably here for a while, pointsman, and better for you it is, too, than moping at home or at the station.”