Redel grinned, an unexpectedly gamine expression. “I’m glad you like it. It’s this winter’s house blend.”
“I hope you charge what it’s worth,” Eslingen said. From the taste of it, it would be well outside anything he could afford.
“Of course.” Redel shrugged one shoulder. “We have something of a reputation as purveyors of winter teas.”
“Which must be difficult this year.” Eslingen took another sip, as though they hadn’t settled down to business.
“Just so.” Redel offered the plate of cakes, and Eslingen took two of the crisp wafers. One was stamped with Seidos’s rearing horse, the other with the Dolphin, and he wondered if that was an omen. “It has not been easy—though to be fair, none of the houses are going to find keeping any reputation easy, given how early the passage closed.”
“Which is an argument Dreams is willing to use against your brother,” Eslingen said, when she did not continue. “If everyone is desperate, everyone has a reason to kill to keep their cargo.”
Redel smiled again. “Perhaps they should have called the point on me. Or Meisenta—though they’d have trouble arguing that against a blind woman, surely. Either of us would be more plausible. We were raised to the business.”
“And Mattaes wasn’t?”
“No more than any woman’s son. He was intended to marry one of Amial Banneron’s daughters—they deal in Chadroni goods, fine carvings and the like.”
Eslingen cocked his head. “I don’t see how that advantages your house. Did they match for liking, then?”
Redel snorted. “Mother had some idea of importing fancy containers for some of the blends, or some such thing. But Mattaes didn’t really like the match, and the girl didn’t much take to him, so when Mother died, Meisenta let the arrangement slide. Dame Banneron wanted a ridiculous portion for him, anyway. But the result was, Mattaes spent the last six or seven years assuming he was marrying into a house of merchants-venturer. He was never taught much of the trade.”
“Yet he’s handling some matters for you now?”
“We needed him. With Meisenta blind, there’s only me to handle the warehouse and the docks—and Elecia, I suppose, but I’d rather the job went to closer kin. I’ll give him his due, he’s quick to learn. He did well for us last year.”
“Then what went wrong with bes’Anthe?” Eslingen watched her narrowly, hoping to surprise some reaction from her, but instead she shrugged.
“We chose badly there. Perhaps I should admit I chose badly. His reputation was—let’s say equivocal—but Elecia said he’d proved reliable for them. The man did not meet our expectations.”
“Then you believe Mattaes when he says bes’Anthe asked for more money?” Eslingen reached for another of the little wafers.
“Oh, yes. I don’t know how much you hear of what goes on around the docks, but there are new fees being demanded, and I’m sure bes’Anthe wouldn’t have had the cash to pay them. And he would have felt it was our business to cover at least some of the cost, it being our cargo.” Redel sighed. “I wish Mattaes had had the sense to just say yes when he was asked.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“You’d have to ask him that.”
Eslingen lifted an eyebrow, and Redel sighed again. “He took offense, I think. He said he didn’t think he should commit that much money without Meisenta’s agreement, though it was only a few pillars over the original fees. He could have pledged that. I expect bes’Anthe treated him like a child, and that put his back up.”
Eslingen nodded. “So then Mattaes came back here, and talked to you and your sister? What time was that?”
“We’d already dined, so we were in the parlor when he came in—half past eight, maybe? He and Meisenta and I argued about what he’d done, and he stalked off to bed. The points came half an hour after that.”
“And did you see any blood on your brother’s clothes? Or did he change before he joined you?”
“He’d changed,” Redel said. “It was a miserable wet night.”
So much for a simple proof, Eslingen thought. “What do you make of his claim that the shirt isn’t his?”
“Well, he would say that,” Redel said, with a grin, and sobered quickly. “No, that’s the thing that worries me most, that shirt. I don’t see how it could have gotten here, and yet—I just can’t see Mattaes knifing a sea captain twice his age.”
“He says it’s not his shirt,” Eslingen said.
“It may not be. The laundry’s mixed things up before. But the blood on it…. I’m not so much afraid that he killed bes’Anthe, Captain, as I’m worried about what he might have done. Or that he might know something, and be too afraid to speak. Or think—I don’t know what.” Redel sighed. “Maybe he’ll talk to you.”
“I’ll press him,” Eslingen said, “and so for that matter will Dreams and Sighs.”
“Adjunct Point Rathe spoke to him already today,” Redel said, with a sidelong glance, and Eslingen nodded.
“I’ll try him tomorrow, then. But I wonder…if Mattaes didn’t do it, do you know of anyone else who would attack your man?”
“I’ve no idea.” Redel shook her head hard for emphasis.
“But you admit bes’Anthe had an equivocal reputation.”
“Oh, well, if you’re thinking that way….” Redel shrugged. “He’s a chancer, always out for one little thing more. At least, that’s what Elecia said, and Andia Jannessen, she’d hired him last season. But we were giving him a chance to better himself, working for us, and we thought—Meisenta and I thought—that would be enough of a bonus. If I were looking, I’d look along the docks for someone else he’s cheated. I don’t think you’ll find there’s a shortage.”
“And the sad thing is, I think that’s true,” Eslingen said, leaning close to Rathe at one of Wicked’s corner tables some hours later, “but I don’t think it does us any good.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Rathe said. “That’s Sighs’ business, and I can’t think it’s likely Trijn could persuade Astarac to let me ask any questions.”
Rain rattled against the shutters above their head. Another nasty night, Eslingen thought, shivering. He hadn’t managed to make it to Wicked’s before the rain set in—and shouldn’t have expected to, either, with the stars against him—and Wicked had taken his cloak to dry by the fire, leaving him in clothes that were merely damp. Rathe had somehow managed to evade the worst of the weather, but his hair was curling tighter than ever in the damp air.
“Not even with Dammar out of commission?” That had been a bit of a shocker: people didn’t generally attack the points, though from everything Rathe had said about the man, Eslingen could well believe that Dammar might be the exception.
“Especially with him out of commission like this,” Rathe said. “Astarac will be run off her feet without him, and she’s not going to admit it, much less let any of us in.” He sighed. “And if I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t, either.”
“So what can we do?” Eslingen poked at the remains of the pie they had shared between them, the shell nearly empty of the thick lamb-and-vegetable gravy that had filled it. He broke off a piece of crust that was soaked in sauce and popped it into his mouth, savoring the rich taste. Rathe refilled their glasses, careful to keep them even.
“Talk to the boy again, I suppose—your turn, I think. Talk to the pontoises, see if they know anything about bes’Anthe, any rumor he was in trouble.”
“Yours,” Eslingen said.
Rathe nodded. “You might ask Young Steen the same question, and his owner, for that matter.”
“If they’ll talk to me,” Eslingen said. “I’ll send a note, see if they’ll meet me away from the docks. He was very touchy about this gang, Nico.”
“That’s a good thought.”
“I’ve another question for you,” Eslingen said, before he could think better of it. “It seems one of the boys who’s trying to join the Guard has some connections to the Staenka family and has volunteered
to help. He’s sincere, I think, but—I’d welcome your advice on the best way to handle it.”
“Depends on how pretty he is,” Rathe said.
Eslingen froze, then made himself reach for his wine.
Rathe’s eyebrows rose. “That pretty?”
“Very pretty.” Eslingen kept tone and expression indifferent. “And all of seventeen. More to the point, he’s—let’s see, now, Meisenta Staenka’s good friend’s leman’s brother, which is a way into the household.”
“He’s what?”
Eslingen ran through the genealogy again, grateful for the distraction, and Rathe shook his head.
“A way into the household, sure, or just maybe a way for them to get into our investigation.”
“He swears his loyalty is to the Guard,” Eslingen said.
“Well, he would.”
“I believe him,” Eslingen said. “He has the stars for it. He wants to see justice done.”
“He’s taken a liking to you,” Rathe said.
“I assure you, he has not!” Eslingen felt himself blush, and was glad of the dim light to hide it.
“Do you think I haven’t seen this before? Any apprentice who talks about seeing justice done is hoping to win her superior’s favor. And don’t tell me Coindarel forbids it.”
Eslingen blushed even deeper at that. “And are you telling me you didn’t join the points to see justice done?”
“What makes you think I didn’t have a desperate passion, too?”
“For who?” Eslingen couldn’t stop the question.
Rathe blinked at him. “You really don’t see it, do you?”
“There’s nothing to see.”
“If you say so.” Rathe tapped two fingers on the table. “Even assuming that’s true—I wouldn’t do it, Philip. There’s too much chance he’d end up at odds with his family, and that’s doing him no favors. If he was one of ours, we’d take him off the case.”
“I told him that.” Eslingen drained his glass. “He said he’d take the chance.”
“If he were my apprentice, I wouldn’t let him.” Rathe leaned back, balancing his stool on two legs. “I wonder what the alchemists had to say about bes’Anthe’s body? Fancy a trip to the deadhouse, Philip?”
“Not really. Probably not a bad idea, though. If they’ll talk to you.”
“I won’t know until we ask,” Rathe let the stool fall with a thud, and reached into his pocket to bring out a very dirty single-sheet almanac. He unfolded it on the tabletop, frowning at the tiny print. “If we go first thing tomorrow, we should catch Fanier.”
Fanier was one of the two senior alchemists responsible for the city’s untimely dead. Eslingen groaned. “What do you call ‘first thing’?”
“If we’re there about nine, they should be done with the night’s work, and not yet started on the day’s.”
Eslingen heaved a sigh. “I imagine it’ll be raining, too.”
“Very likely.” There was a note of laughter in Rathe’s voice.
Eslingen gave a smile in return, though if truth were to be told, he was thoroughly sick of the current stars. It happened to everyone, of course, temporarily dominant stars coming into conflict with the stars that ruled one’s birth, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as the twice-a-year ghost-tides were for, say, necromancers, but it was certainly unpleasant enough. And it looked as though it would be a week or longer before the influence waned.
He made himself look around the taproom, trying to draw cheer from the fire and the warm lights and the good-tempered crowd that filled most of the room. The Acrobatikon, the last of the city’s unroofed open theaters, had closed when the rains set in, another casualty of the unseasonable weather, and the Tyrseia had reduced the number of its shows in hopes of keeping down the costs of heating its enormous space, but the smaller closed houses and the handful of private houses were in full swing, doing their best to make their money before the enforced hiatus of the midwinter masque. Neither the play nor the cast had been announced yet, nor would be for some weeks, but already it seemed as though every actor in the city was competing for a place. Thank Seidos I’m not involved, Eslingen thought, not for the first time. He’d been part of the previous winter’s near-disaster, when a discontented noble had attempted to use the masque to destroy the queen, and had no desire to take part in another. In fact, he planned never to set foot in a theater again unless he paid for a ticket.
“Philip?” Rathe gave him a searching look, and Eslingen forced another smile.
“Sorry. Thought I saw Siredy, that’s all.” Verre Siredy was a former colleague in the Masters of Defense, and also the lover of the actor Gavi Jhirassi, currently their upstairs neighbor. A very vigorous lover: they had heard the bedstead thumping more than once.
From Rathe’s grin, the same thought had crossed his mind. ”Surely not, I think Gavi’s playing tonight.”
“Must’ve been mistaken.” Eslingen looked at the remains of their dinner, then tipped his head to listen for the sound of the rain against the shutters. “Sounds like it might be slacking some. Shall we?”
“What, no sweet?” Rathe recoiled in exaggerated horror.
“I can live without.”
Rathe waved to the nearest waiter, handed him a couple of coins. “Ask Wicked to wrap up a couple of the fried pies, please. And bring Philip his cloak.”
“Right away,” the man promised, and Eslingen shook his head.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“It does sound like it’s a little better out.” Rathe paused. “These stars are really getting to you.”
Eslingen sighed, unable to come up with a clever answer. “Yes.”
Rathe’s hand closed gently on his shoulder. “Not much longer, I hope?”
“At least a week.”
“Ah, Philip.”
Rathe’s grip tightened, and Eslingen leaned for a moment into the touch. “At least I’ve got a nice murder to distract me.”
“We’re certainly got that,” Rathe said, and the waiter arrived with the cloak and a well-wrapped packet.
They rose and breakfasted in the gloomy half-light of another cloudy morning, and Eslingen took Sunflower down to the garden to let him run before handing him over to the weaver’s daughter, her hair frizzed to a cloud despite her attempts to contain it in a turban. Even Sunflower seemed subdued, and let her take his lead with no more than a half-hearted attempt to tangle himself in her skirts. Eslingen eyed him warily, wondering if he was sickening for something, and the girl shook her head.
“He’ll perk up once he’s had a chance to lie by the fire. I’ve a marrowbone saved for him, too.”
“Lucky him,” Eslingen said, and the weaver appeared behind her daughter’s shoulder.
“Didn’t know you could be bought so cheaply, Captain! I’ll bear that in mind.” She closed the door before he could think of a clever answer. In its pen beside the house, the goat gave an almost human snicker.
“Ready?” Rathe asked, coming across the garden, and Eslingen hunched his shoulders under the not-quite-dry cloak.
“Is anyone ever ready to visit the deadhouse?”
“Point granted,” Rathe said, after a moment. “At least it’s not raining.”
They stopped at the corner grocer, where the owner was just lowering the shutters, and Rathe bought apples for later and paid an extra demming to send one of the apprentices to carry a note to Point of Dreams.
“Not that Trijn would object to my being late,” he said, “but it’s better if she knows where to find me.”
Eslingen nodded, and they made their way toward the Hopes-Point Bridge. Fog was still curling off the water—close to high tide, Eslingen noted, though he couldn’t have said whether it was rising or falling—and it mingled with the smoke from the shops that lined the bridge to blur the edges of the buildings, and turn the pedestrians to ghosts. At least it wasn’t raining, he repeated to himself, and a pamphlet pinned to the frame of a bookseller’s door caught his eye. The woo
dcut on its cover showed the Hopes-Point Bridge, the familiar pile of buildings at each end and the brief gap in the middle, but beneath its central arch a hooded figure rose from the waves, a skeletal hand reaching toward the nearest pillar. Fish surrounded her, the same dogfish that had decorated the broadsheet; in bold letters, the title read The Custom of the City, or, Old Tales Newly Expounded. He slowed, beckoning to the apprentice sweeping leaves into the gutter.
“How much?”
“A spider, sir, and it’s just out today.”
That was more than twice the price of even the most questionable broadsheets, but Eslingen reached into his pocket anyway, came up with a single copper aster. He flipped it to the apprentice, who caught it neatly, and unpinned a fresh copy to hand it over with a flourish. “There you are, sir, and thank you.”
Eslingen touched his hat in answer, aware that Rathe had slowed and was looking back over his shoulder.
“Philip?”
“Nothing important.” Eslingen tucked the pamphlet into his sleeve, and stretched his legs to catch up with the other man.
They reached the deadhouse a little after the clocks struck nine. Rathe rapped sharply on the door, and after a moment one of the apprentices peered out at them.
“Pointsman?” he began doubtfully, and Rathe sighed.
“Adjunct Point Rathe, Point of Dreams. I’d like to speak to Fanier, if he’s free.”
The apprentice blinked, then composed himself. He was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, with an awkward length of limb, but he managed a reasonably graceful bow. “Please to come within, sir—sirs. If you’ll wait here, I’ll see what I can do.”
He led them into the main hall, the stone floor spotless, and then past the fountain to a smaller room where a stove was lit and there were benches along the wall, then disappeared into the hallway. Rathe shook his head. “That one won’t last.”
“Oh?”
“Too polite.”
Eslingen laughed. That was what had been odd about this visit: he’d never before been treated with anything like respect. But then, in this house, the alchemists’ loyalty was to the dead, not the living. “I suppose they need someone who can treat with grieving kin.”
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