“Point of Sighs,” Sohier said, under her breath, and he nodded.
An equal number of their own people had found reason to be in the main room, though only Maeykin had the sense to at least pretend to be mending the leather wrapping on the handle of his truncheon. The rest were clustered by the largest of the stoves, eying the group from Point of Sighs like dogs watching trespassers. Per Maillard, the duty point, looked very glad to see them.
“Adjunct Point! The chief says you should go straight up.”
“Right.” Rathe handed his wet cloak to Sohier, and started up the stairs. The door to Trijn’s workroom was open, spilling magelight into the hall, and he could hear an unhappy rumble of conversation as he approached.
“—a respectable merchant-resident.” From the exasperation in her voice, Trijn had made the argument more than once already, and Rathe rapped on the doorframe.
“You sent for me, Chief?”
Trijn glared at him from her place at the worktable. She looked as though she’d been called out from a party, in a fine wool skirt and bodice trimmed with an almost frivolous line of maiden’s-knots. Her hair was pinned up under a lace cap, but the fashionably loose curls that framed her face were frizzed with damp. “Come in and close the door.”
Rathe did as he was told, and pulled a stool away from the wall.
“This is Edild Dammar, out of Point of Sighs—Senior Adjunct there.” Trijn reached for her pipe, discovered it was cold, and scowled deeply. “He claims he has reason to call a point on a resident of our district.”
“I have reason and evidence, Chief Trijn,” Dammar said. He was, Rathe guessed, only a few years younger than Trijn herself, a broad-shouldered, bull-necked man who was managing to ignore the discomfort of soaked stockings and cuffs.
“So Sohier said,” Rathe said. “On a tea merchant’s brother?”
Trijn gave him a sour glance. “On Mattaes Staenka. His sisters, Meisenta and Redel, they’ve held the business since midwinter.”
“He was seen quarreling with the tea captain,” Dammar said.
“And by your own account was seen to leave,” Trijn said.
“But no one else had any argument with bes’Anthe,” Dammar said, “and there’s no denying the man was found dead in the garden not an hour later.”
“Dead how?” Rathe asked.
“Knife between the ribs,” Dammar said. “Neat enough, but not—experienced. Not professional, certainly.”
“I take it no one saw him come back,” Rathe said, and was unsurprised when the others both shook their heads.
“No sign of him,” Dammar said, “but the place was busy as a beehive. The price of tea has risen like a rocket, and everyone’s trying to make a decent price.”
“And that’s what they quarreled over?” Trijn’s eyes narrowed as she held a sliver of wood to the nearest candle and used it to relight her pipe.
Dammar shrugged. “We don’t know. No one claims to have heard. It’s one of the questions I’d like to ask him.”
“You were wanting to call a point,” Trijn said.
“And still am,” Dammar answered. “But I’ll admit there might be evidence against it.”
Trijn sighed. “Go with him, Rathe. And don’t take every woman in the station. No need to make a spectacle of it.”
And that was also typical of Trijn, Rathe thought. She came of a good merchant family herself, and preferred to cater to their sensibilities where she could. From the look of him, Dammar was considering a protest, but wisely swallowed it. “I’ll bring Sohier,” he said aloud, adding, to Dammar, “She’s my usual second.”
“My second’s Bertelan tonight.” Dammar grimaced. “And I’d like to know how we’re expected to call the point with only four of us.”
“If there’s the need, the boy will come quietly,” Trijn said. “I’ll guarantee it—as will Rathe.”
And how in Astree’s name am I supposed to do that? Rathe swallowed the words, knowing that Trijn had probably already warned the Staenka household—and knowing, too, that a merchant’s son was more likely to come quietly than most of the folk southriver.
“We need a fifth,” Dammar said.
“If you do, it’ll be one of mine,” Trijn answered. “I won’t have Sighs running roughshod over my neighborhood.”
Dammar made a noise that was just shy of a snarl, but managed a nod. “I’ll leave the rest of my people here, then.”
“As you please.” Trijn waved dismissal. “A quick word, Rathe.”
“Yes, Chief.” Rathe rose, waited until Dammar had left the room, and then, at Trijn’s gesture, closed the workroom door. “He’ll think you’re ordering me to cross him.”
Trijn snorted. “And so I am. Well, no, not if there’s enough evidence against the boy. But Meisenta Staenka is an honest woman, and I want her troubled as little as possible.”
“What do you know about the brother?” Rathe couldn’t keep an edge out of his voice, and Trijn frowned again.
“Nothing against him. He’s but young, they only took him into the business after Chera died. She was by way of being a friend of my sister’s, though I don’t know if Meisenta’s kept up the connection.”
“She’d be a fool not to.” Trijn’s sister was the grande bourgeoise herself, chief of Asteiant’s regents, the council of merchants-resident that governed the city’s day-to-day business.
“Meisenta goes her own way,” Trijn said. “Well, go on, get this over with.”
“Right, Chief,” Rathe answered, and headed for the stairs.
It didn’t take long to collect the others and head out into the rain again. To his surprise, the Staenka family lived not in the street of nice houses that bordered Point of Hopes, but in a mixed neighborhood closer to Point of Sighs. Still, the house was a good one, three stories tall and only two rooms wide, but brick with solid stone in the corners. Iron gates closed off the alleys that led presumably to a garden at the back. There was a stone ship between two lighthouses carved above the door: entirely appropriate for a tea merchant, Rathe thought. Lights showed in what was likely a parlor window, and Dammar swore under his breath.
“If the brat’s run—”
Before he could finish, a cloaked figure detached itself from the shadows beneath the wall, opening its own lantern to reveal a pointsman’s truncheon at his side. Rathe lifted his own lantern, focussing on the other’s face, and recognized Leenderts, the senior man on the night watch.
“Rathe. I hoped the chief would send you. The boy’s still there—”
“No thanks to you,” Dammar said. “Or your chief.”
“This is Edild Dammar of Sighs,” Rathe said. “The body’s on their books.”
“Adjunct Point,” Leenderts said, warily.
Dammar ignored him, and pushed past all of them to climb the four steps to the door. He slammed the knocker hard against its plate, one, twice, and the door swung open, plucking the knocker from his hand before he could strike again. A tall man in a coat so plain and precisely cut as to mark him as a superior servant looked out at them.
“Dammar, Point of Sighs. I want a word with Mattaes Staenka.”
The steward hesitated, and Rathe took a step forward. “Nicolas Rathe, adjunct at Point of Dreams. Chief Trijn sent me as well. If we could speak to the household? There’s a man dead in Point of Sighs.”
“Dead?” For a moment, the steward looked shaken, and then his mask of calm returned. “If you’ll come in, pointsmen—Adjunct Points—I’ll inform Madame Staenka.”
“Thank you,” Rathe said, riding over whatever Dammar might have said, and they shouldered awkwardly into the stone-floored hall. The steward closed and barred the door behind them, then disappeared through a door halfway down the hall. In the light of the single magelight lantern, Rathe could see that the console table and stand were old but good, expensive pieces well maintained, and even the benches were neatly made and impeccably polished. But then, the Staenka family had a reputation for excellent goods at
corresponding prices.
The steward reappeared a moment later, the pause barely long enough to preserve the fiction that they were not expected. “This way, Adjunct Point.”
The Staenkas were waiting in what had to be the main parlor, a fire burning in the old-fashioned fireplace and half a dozen candelabra lit on the tables. There were magelights as well, small ones backed by mirrors, but the shadows were still deep in the corners. There were five people in the room, Rathe saw, but one drew the gaze, a woman sitting straight-backed in a tall chair to the left of the fireplace. Her skirt and bodice were too dark to read as anything but black in the flickering light, relieved only by a small square collar of exquisite lace. There was another narrow band of lace at her cuffs, and the slipper that peeped out from beneath her hem embroidered with silver thread. She was not beautiful, long-faced and hook-nosed, but the hair that showed beneath her sober cap gleamed golden in the firelight.
“Adjunct Point Dammar, Point of Sighs, and Adjunct Point Rathe, Point of Dreams,” the steward announced. “And three others.”
“Thank you.” The seated woman had to be Meisenta Staenka, the elder sister, Rathe thought. “Drowe says you spoke of a dead man.”
“That’s right,” Dammar began, and the woman lifted a hand.
“And which are you?”
Dammar blinked, visibly taken aback, but rallied quickly. “Dammar of Sighs, mistress, and the body is on my book.”
She turned one palm outward. “Tell your tale. Please.”
“This evening, a tea captain, one Ketel bes’Anthe, was found dead in the gardens back of the Bear and Bush,” Dammar said. “Word is, he was under contract to your house.”
“Aucher?” Meisenta did not turn her head, but the man standing beside her chair cleared his throat nervously.
“Yes. That’s right, we’d hired him this year.”
“My husband, Aucher Gebellin,” Meisenta said. “I am sorry to hear that, Adjunct Point. Go on.”
“bes’Anthe had been stabbed and left for dead by the privy gate,” Dammar said. “When I spoke to the servers, they all said that they’d seen him talking to a young man, and that he and the young man had argued. In fact, the quarrel was serious enough that the young man stormed out of the tavern almost without paying. The house knife had to chase him down to make him settle his score.”
“And you have a name for this young man,” Meisenta said.
“Mattaes Staenka,” Dammar answered. “He’s well known about the place.”
“Mattaes?” Meisenta did not look away—in fact, Rathe thought, his attention sharpening, she didn’t seem to be looking at anything at all, as though she were at least night-blind.
A figure stirred in the shadows, stepped forward, and emerged as a slight young man in an embroidered dressing gown. That was a nice touch, Rathe thought, implying that he’d been dragged from his bed, but less convincing with the rest of the household still fully dressed. “I was at the Bear and Bush, yes.” He was older than Rathe had thought at first glance, not really a boy any more—maybe twenty-five, with fair hair receding from his high forehead. “And I certainly argued with bes’Anthe. But I left him unharmed.”
“What time did you come home?” Rathe asked, and saw Meisenta’s mouth open. “Rathe, mistress, Point of Dreams.”
She inclined her head in thanks, and he was more certain than ever that she didn’t see him. “Mattaes?”
He shrugged. “I came straight back, but in this weather—I think the clock struck half-past eight while I was changing clothes.”
“We’ll want to see those clothes,” Dammar said sharply.
“Redel,” Meisenta said. “See to it, please.”
“With your permission, mistress,” Rathe said quickly, “I’ll send Sohier with whoever collects them. That way there’s no chance of—misunderstandings.”
“That’s outside of enough,” the third woman said. Where the Staenkas were all golden-fair, she was dark, her hair piled up in a coronet of braids.
“It’s for Mattaes’s sake as much as anyone’s, Elecia,” Meisenta said. “Yes, Adjunct Point, you may send Sohier.”
Rathe nodded to his second, and the younger Staenka sister—Redel—crossed the room to tug at a bell-rope. Sohier joined her, and when the door opened, disappeared with the servant.
“Can anyone vouch for when you arrived?” Dammar asked.
“Drowe?” Mattaes sounded doubtful. “Our steward, that is. And I had hot water brought up to my room.”
“I saw him about a quarter to nine,” Redel said. “He hadn’t been in long, his hair was still wet.”
“And bes’Anthe was found dead when?” Rathe looked at Dammar.
“Near ten o’clock. And it’s not so far to the Bear and Bush that he couldn’t have gone back again.”
“Can anyone vouch for you after you came in?” Rathe asked. “Witness that you were in the house?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dammar stiffen, and then relax with an effort.
Mattaes shrugged again. “I—I don’t think so? I was still angry, I didn’t want to talk to anyone until I could think straight.”
“Someone must have seen you,” Redel said.
“Why? I was in my room, trying to dry out. I didn’t have anything to say because we hadn’t settled anything—”
He stopped abruptly, and Rathe said, “What did you argue about?”
“Business.” Mattaes cast a wary glance at his brother-in-law. “You’ll have heard that the tea harvest was light this year, and the sea lanes closed early—”
“I sent him to make an offer for the part of bes’Anthe’s cargo that was not already bespoke to us,” Meisenta said. “And before you ask, I sent him because it’s time he took his share in the business, man or not.”
Mattaes blushed, the wave of color visible even in the lamplight. Before Rathe could question him, the parlor door opened again, and he looked back to see Sohier with a bundle of clothes in her arm.
“You’ll want to see this, sir.” She tilted the mass to expose a man’s shirt, tugged out the sleeve to reveal dark stains at the cuff and spattered up the arm.
“Blood,” Dammar said, with grim satisfaction, and Sohier nodded.
“I don’t find any on the coat,” she said, “but there might be some by daylight.”
“Blood?” Meisenta said, and in the same instant, Mattaes said, “Let me see that.”
Instantly, Dammar put himself in front of Sohier, and Rathe lifted a hand. To Meisenta, he said, “My second has found blood on your brother’s shirt, the one he discarded in his room.”
“Let me see,” Mattaes demanded again.
Dammar clenched his fists, and Rathe touched his shoulder. “Let him look. But no touching.”
Dammar grimaced, but stepped aside, and Sohier held up each of the pieces. They were well made, expensive fabric cut plain, just what Rathe would have expected in this house. Mattaes shook his head.
“That’s not my shirt.”
“The maid said it has the house laundry mark,” Sohier said.
“Well, it’s not the shirt I was wearing.” Mattaes looked around as though realizing for the first time that he was in trouble. “It’s isn’t! I swear, I gave this one away weeks ago.”
“I’m calling the point,” Dammar said.
“Wait.” Meisenta rose from her chair, and instantly Aucher was at her side, ready to guide her if needed. “Show me.”
Sohier held out the shirt, and Aucher said softly, “In front of you.”
Meisenta took three steps forward, then stopped, hand outstretched. “I cannot see. May I touch it?”
“No harm in it, surely,” Rathe said, to Dammar, who flung up his hands.
“If you must. But I’m still calling the point.”
Meisenta ignored him, running long fingers over the fabric, then pinching at the stains. They were stiff under her fingers, and her mouth tightened. “I see.”
“It’s not the same shirt,” Matta
es said desperately, but his sister ignored him, her attention on Dammar.
“You’re Point of Sighs, of course. I would be willing to pay a fee for your inconvenience if he could be held at Point of Dreams, where we can see to his upkeep.”
Dammar hesitated, and Aucher moved to a tall sideboard, unlocking the front panel and lowering it to reveal a bookkeeper’s desk. Most of the arched compartments held neatly folded papers; the empty spaces looked like missing teeth, but he ignored them, fumbling with the inkstand. For a moment, Rathe thought he was going to offer a vowel, but instead Aucher unlocked a larger lower compartment and drew out a purse as big as a fist. Dammar’s eyebrows lifted, and Sohier and Bertelan were both wide-eyed—and no wonder, Rathe thought. Even if it held only copper coins, there had to be two pillars in that worn bag, a month’s salary for a common pointsman, and he would lay money himself that most of the coin would be silver.
He saw Dammar swallow hard. “Well. Under the circumstances….”
“Thank you, Adjunct Point, that’s very gracious of you.” Meisenta nodded, and Aucher pressed the purse into Dammar’s hand. “And you, Adjunct Point Rathe—”
“I don’t take fees,” Rathe said. “We’ll hold him at Point of Dreams, but he’s Sighs’ case, madame.”
“Understood.” Meisenta inclined her head in regal acknowledgement. “Mattaes, put some clothes on, and go with them. We’ll see you well housed.”
“Meis—” He stopped abruptly. “All right. I’ll go change.”
“And I’ll go with you,” Leenderts said smoothly.
“What happens now?” Redel asked, as the door closed behind them.
“He’ll be held until the next court sessions,” Dammar said. “If he confesses, it’ll go easier on him. Times are hard—”
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