“I’d certainly carry a message, if you’d care to leave one. Or you could try back tomorrow.”
“We’ll do that,” Rathe said. “Are you her journeyman?”
“Not I, I’m sent by the Guild. She has an apprentice, but he’s on an errand.”
No point in questioning her, then, Eslingen thought, and saw the same disappointment in Rathe’s eyes. They thanked her, and left the shop, threading their way back toward the center of the bridge until they found a corner where they could stop out of the line of traffic.
“Not much useful there,” Eslingen said, “but below—”
Rathe nodded. “I’d say that was where Dammar was attacked, and whoever attacked him must have wanted something from the chamber—I suspect Dammar had his own key to it, whether Dame Havys knew it or not, he could have been keeping anything there.”
“So someone went down with him, waited for him to open the chamber,” Eslingen said, “and then attacked?”
“That’s how I read it. Unless the boy from the deadhouse turns up something different.”
Eslingen straightened his coat. “And then hauled the body up in the sling and tossed him over the rail.” He couldn’t help shivering at the thought, Dammar bleeding and beaten unconscious, swaying up the height of the tower. It wouldn’t take much after that, just a moment’s break in the traffic, and the body could be slipped over without anyone noticing. The sounds of carts would drown any splash.
“They’d have had to tie him so he didn’t slip free,” Rathe said, “and that will have left marks. We can prove it that way, though I suppose it doesn’t much matter.”
“And it doesn’t get us much closer to who,” Eslingen said. “Though I think this should rule out any question that Mattaes Staenka was involved.”
“That’ll disappoint some of my people, but I agree with you. Not that I really thought it was! No, it has to be someone on the docks, and I can’t help thinking it might be related to this gang. But I don’t know any of the river folk, not to ask this kind of question.”
“I only know Young Steen, and he’s in Ostolas by now,” Eslingen said. “Do we try anyway?”
“We might?” Rathe sounded less certain than his words. “Northriver or south, I wonder?”
Before Eslingen could think of an answer, there was a shout from the street, and a boy darted toward them, barely missing the wheels of a cart.
“Adjunct Point!”
Rathe grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and drew him out of the path of a disapproving woman in expensive black. “Be more careful!? What’s amiss?”
“It’s Adjunct Point Dammar, sir,” the boy said, between gasps. “He’s dead…. The doctor wants you.”
“What?” Eslingen couldn’t stop the word.
“Dead, sir,” the boy repeated. “And please…sir, Dr. Bael says to come at once…she wants to talk to you before she has to answer the sister.”
“We’ll come,” Rathe said grimly, and they turned toward Point of Sighs.
They reached the pewter-smith’s house in good time, to find Bellin on the doorstep and the shop in chaos behind her.
“What in Tyrseis’s name?” Rathe began, waving a hand at the apprentices huddled in one corner while a woman servant wept in the corner, her apron flung over her head. Eslingen could hear raised voices from the chambers above, and Bellin gave them harried look.
“Thank Astree, the brat found you. The doctor says there’s something wrong, and the sister’s reaching hysteric rage. Will you go up?”
“Must we?” Eslingen murmured, as something shattered on the floor above, and Rathe shot him a wry glance.
“I don’t see that we have a choice. Walk warily, Philip, the doctor’s a Phoeban, and the sister—Sawel’s her name—I think she cared for her brother.”
Eslingen nodded and followed him up the stairs. Shutters were open at the end of the hall, letting in a wedge of cloudy light that fell across an open doorway, and a woman’s voice rose beyond it.
“—dare you question my judgement?”
“My brother is dead through your carelessness! I spit on what judgement you have!”
Rathe grimaced, and knocked loudly on the door’s frame, then stepped through without waiting for an answer. “Now, then, what’s all this?”
Eslingen stayed close at his shoulder, ready to jump should it be necessary to separate the women. The doctor was unmistakable, tall and lean in a deep ochre gown that showed ugly stains at the cuffs; the other, then, was Dammar’s sister, older and graying, strands of her hair coming down out of a braided bun, her cheeks streaked with tears. Rathe was right, he thought, she did love her brother.
“You,” she said furiously, pointing to Rathe. “You have no business here.”
“I sent for him,” the doctor interrupted, “and if you will protest so much, I’ll begin to think there’s a reason.”
Sawel’s mouth dropped open for an instant, and then she launched herself at the doctor. She got in one backhand blow that knocked the doctor back on her heels before Rathe caught her other arm and swung her away. Eslingen put himself between them and the doctor, who swore under her breath, but had the sense to keep quiet.
“Enough of that,” Rathe said. “No, no more, dame. If it was a mistake to send for me, let me find it out.”
His voice was soothing, the words less important than the tone. Sawel drew breath as though to speak, and collapsed into racking sobs. Rathe caught her before she fell, and she put her head against his shoulder like a child as she fought for control.
“Edild’s dead,” she managed at last. “I raised him, all the child I’ll ever have. Mother died when he was four and I was fourteen, and I raised him, saw him settled—and now this. He was doing better, Adjunct Point, I swear it, and then she failed him. And now she has the gall to cry poison.”
Eslingen heard the doctor stiffen, and stepped back, pressing his heel lightly on her toe. She gasped, but had the wit to stay silent.
“He was one of ours,” Rathe said, “and we take care of our own. If anything was wrong here, whether it was negligence or worse, we want to deal with it.”
“He was doing better,” Sawel said again. “He was well enough to use the pot himself, laughed at me when I scolded him.”
“I don’t doubt you,” Rathe said. “Go downstairs, have Luce make you a pot of tea. There’s a pointswoman there, her name’s Bellin, she worked close with Dammar. If there’s anything you need, she’ll get it for you.”
Sawel drew a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Adjunct Point. I’ll go down. But you’ll speak with me before you leave?”
Rathe nodded.
He turned toward the door, turning her with him, and Eslingen offered his arm. She clung to him without apology, and he eased her to the edge of the stair. “Are you all right going down?” he asked, trying to match Rathe’s tone, and saw the maid Luce waiting at the foot, her apron smudged and wrinkled from her own weeping.
“I’ll be fine,” Sawel said, but even so he lingered until she was halfway down before turning back to the bedchamber.
Edild Dammar was unmistakably dead, the linen sheet drawn down to reveal a sturdy body that had already begun to heal, the bruises faded from ripe purple to yellow and green about the edges. Rathe and the physician were looking at him, but Rathe turned at Eslingen’s step.
“She’s downstairs,” Eslingen said, in answer to his look, “and gone to the kitchen, I hope.” You were right, he wanted to say, she loved him—like her child, she said, no wonder she’s distraught. There was no time for that, however, and he said instead, “What did the doctor find that’s so upsetting? By all accounts, the man was like enough to die.”
“He was a luckier man than he had any right to be,” the doctor said, indignantly, and Rathe held up a hand.
“This is Dr. Bael,” he said. “Doctor, this is Captain vaan Esling of the City Guard.”
“Another troop to plague us,” she said, but her heart wasn’t in the comp
laint. “Adjunct Point, the man had no reason to die. I told you before, the knife missed everything of import in his chest, didn’t even touch his lungs. He had fever for a day, and then—well, he said he felt weak, picked at his food, but I swear I thought he was doing it to stay snug in his sister’s house. I gather he lived in lodgings, no one to look after him there.”
“So he did,” Rathe said.
“That was a thorough beating,” Eslingen said, looking at the bruises that mottled chest and arms and thighs. Dammar’s face was badly marked, too, both eyes still blackened, and for a guess his nose had been broken and eased back into a semblance of its original shape. “Might it have affected his wits?”
“If it had, I would have known it,” Bael answered. “So would she, for that matter, and complained of it. No, he was lucky there, too. There’s no reason for him to be dead.”
“And yet,” Eslingen murmured, in spite of himself, and earned a frown from Rathe.
“I take it that’s why you called us?”
Bael nodded. “I wanted to send him to the alchemists to settle the question, but she’d have none of it.”
“That’s a serious thing to ask,” Rathe said. “It comes hard on a woman who’s just lost her brother.”
Bael scowled at the body. “If someone’s poisoned him, surely she’d want to know.”
“Is that what you think happened?” Rathe drew the sheet back up, covering Dammar’s face.
Bael stopped, the anger falling away, and for the first time Eslingen heard the Phoeban precision in her voice. “This is a most unlikely outcome for this man. I cannot see how the wounds he had could have killed him, not at this point. I see no other wounds, nor was he fevered, nor showed any sign of illness.”
“He was weak enough when I spoke to him last,” Rathe said.
“That surprised me,” Bael answered. “I thought it was more likely he didn’t want to talk to you.”
“Also possible,” Rathe said. “So. Not his wounds, not sickness—why poison, then?”
“He was taken ill overnight.” Bael lifted a small wax tablet, no doubt checking her notes. “Some time about half past four, they think, for he called for the maid a little after, and she heard the clock strike five as she was tending him. He was struck with cold chills, then vomited. He was well enough to be taken to the close-stool first, but he said then his legs were heavy and within the hour they could no longer bear his weight. They sent for me at first sunrise, and by then he was in deadly pain and having trouble breathing. He lost the ability to speak not long after, and died a little after the clock struck nine.”
There were two or three poisons that could produce that effect, Eslingen thought, hemlock first among them. “Did he say anything?”
“Complained of the pains,” Bael said. “Cried for his sister. I asked if he’d eaten or drunk anything, but he never answered.”
“There’s a pitcher by the bed,” Rathe said. “But no cup?”
Eslingen stooped, peering past their legs. “It’s under the bed. He might have dropped it—”
“Or it was knocked over in the rush to tend him.” Rathe picked up the pitcher and shook it lightly, then sniffed the contents. “Smells like tea.”
Eslingen took it from him and sniffed cautiously. That was exactly what it smelled like, the ordinary sort of tea everyone drank all winter, and he handed it back with a shrug. “I’m not tasting it for you, but, yes, I’d say it’s tea.”
“Fanier will need to have a look at this,” Rathe said. “All right, doctor, I’m asking you now officially. On your oath, how do you believe this man died?”
“I hold he was poisoned,” Bael answered. “He had all the symptoms of a man who’d eaten hemlock, or dramberry, it might be either. And for a guess it was in the tea that was left him for overnight, though without testing what’s left, I’ve no proof of that. But I’ll give my oath and say before the judiciary that I believe the man was poisoned.” She paused. “But don’t think that’ll get the sister to agree to sending him to the deadhouse.”
Maybe if you didn’t put it quite that way, Eslingen thought, but had more sense then to say it aloud. He caught Rathe’s eye, and surprised a wry smile.
“We can only try,” Rathe said. “Philip, would you send Bellin up? Tell Dame Sawel I’ll need to have a word. And ask Luce about the tea if you get a chance.”
“Of course,” Eslingen said.
He found Bellin at the foot of the stairs, dividing her attention between the door that led to the kitchens and what she could hear of what was going on upstairs. The apprentices had been sent somewhere, and the shop door was barred. “Well?” she demanded, as soon as he was close enough that she could speak without their being overheard.
“Rathe wants you upstairs,” he said, not sure if he should say more, and she clutched his sleeve, then released him as though the wool was red hot.
“Was it poison?”
“The doctor thinks so,” Eslingen said. “And Rathe wants to talk to the sister once you’re in place.”
“The doctor.” Bellin looked as though she wanted to spit. “A fine lot of good she did him.”
“She expected him to live,” Eslingen said, unsure why he was defending Bael, and Bellin brushed past him without another word.
The back door opened onto a short hall that led to the kitchen, and he tapped softly on the wall as he approached. “Dame Sawel?”
The maid Luce was busy at the fire—the house had neither stove nor range, just the old-fashioned open fire hung with pots and a stand for a spit, though at the moment only a large kettle was pushed over the flames. Sawel sat hunched at the table they obviously normally used for the day’s work, though a large bowl and a cheese grater and a bunch of carrots had been pushed higgledy-piggledy aside to make room for her. She had clearly been weeping again, a handkerchief knotted and sodden in her hands, but she looked up at his voice.
“Well?”
“Adjunct Point Rathe will be down in a moment,” he answered. “In the meantime, dame, I’d like a word with Luce.”
Sawel shrugged, resting her hand on her cheek, and Luce turned warily away from the fire. “What do you want, then? And who are you to ask?”
“I’m with the City Guard,” Eslingen said patiently. “We’re concerned in this also. I wondered, did you leave him with food as well as tea for the night?”
“No.” Luce shook her head for emphasis. “He’d had a good dinner, I didn’t think there was need. But the doctor said he should keep drinking, and he liked the flavor of the tea.”
“Can I see the leaves?”
“I used the last of it.” Luce turned to a cupboard and produced a small box that bore the remains of a label. “There might be some crumbs left.”
Eslingen took it with a nod of thanks, and pried open the close-fitting lid to peer at what was left. Luce was right, it was little more than dust and a scattering of leaves and a few wrinkled buds, plus a tiny scrap of pink that probably belonged to some flower. He sniffed, but it smelled like any dozen expensive blends. The original label had been torn away, but a slip of paper had been pasted to the lid, a name scrawled across it. He turned it so that Luce could see the writing. “Half Moon Blend?”
Luce shrugged. “We got it from his lodgings, Dame Sawel wanted to keep him content.”
Eslingen’s attention sharpened. “Then I’m guessing no one else drank it?”
“Not at that price,” Luce said.
Sawel lifted her head again. “It was Edild’s tea, an indulgence, not something to be shared out—not at the prices those thieves in the tea houses charge! There wasn’t much left.” Her face crumpled. “I hoped to buy him more.”
“I’ll need to take this little bit with me.”
“Why?” Sawel demanded. “There was nothing wrong with it.”
“We need to be sure of that,” Rathe said, from the doorway. “Dame, I’m sorry. I don’t think he died a natural death.”
Sawel’s breath caught in her ches
t, and for an instant Eslingen thought she would wail again. But she controlled herself, just her hands closing tighter on the wet linen to betray her feelings. “That Dis-damned doctor—”
“She did her duty,” Rathe said gently. “And then some, I should say. Your brother was lucky not to be worse hurt, but she did good work on his face.”
Sawel nodded, her voice catching in a little hiccup before she could speak. “I’ll grant her that, she did. And he was vain, Edild was, he’d have hated to have his nose set crooked….” She shook herself. “Well. Poison, she said to me. Do you believe that, too?”
“It seems most likely,” Rathe said. “And in the tea he had overnight, that’s the only thing that wasn’t shared. I’d like to have an alchemist look at him, to be sure.”
Sawel’s eyes flickered closed, fresh tears running down her cheeks, but she managed to nod. “It was no one here, Adjunct Point. I can promise you that.”
“We’ll know more once the alchemists have seen him,” Rathe said, and gestured for Eslingen to come away.
It was another hour or more before the cart arrived, though Rathe was pleased to see that Fanier had sent a closed carrier, the sort they used for the respectably dead. Sawel saw her brother’s body into the back with jealous care, wrapped in thick blankets for futile cushioning, and withdrew again into her sorrow. Bellin watched her go, then gave Rathe a morose nod.
“That’s good, to tell them to show respect. I’ll go with him, if you’d like.”
Rathe shook his head. “No, I want to be there myself. Philip?”
“I’ll come, too,” Eslingen said, and Bellin frowned.
“How’s it the Guard’s business? No offense meant, of course.”
“Better not have been,” Rathe said. He waited until her gaze dropped before continuing. “It might have to do with bes’Anthe’s death. There are indications. No, you stay here and get a proper statement from Dr. Bael.”
Bellin nodded and turned away.
“Are you sure you want to visit the deadhouse?” Rathe asked, and Eslingen gave him a crooked smile.
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