Point of Sighs

by Melissa Scott

  Eslingen hesitated. He had no particular desire to relive those moments on the river, particularly not in front of the boy, but if he’d heard all those stories, maybe he’d have some useful insight. “We were attacked by what looked like great dogfish. They came at us in the fog, tried to overturn the boat, but we were able to get away.”

  “You’re all right?” De Vian’s eyes widened. “You were lucky, she always tries to take the fairest—”

  “We fought them off,” Eslingen said, and hoped he sounded sufficiently repressive. “We got west of the Hopes-Point Bridge, and they didn’t follow. Couldn’t follow, I assume.”

  “Yes. Hopes-Point is one end of the binding. The Queen’s Bridge is the other.”

  “So I’d gathered.”

  “But you didn’t see her?”

  “The fish were quite enough,” Eslingen said, and couldn’t quite hide a shudder.

  “You were lucky,” de Vian said again. “She would have taken you, and there wouldn’t have been anything anyone could do about it.” He paused. “You’re not hurt, are you? They didn’t draw blood?”

  “Not for want of trying.”

  “If they had, they could have claimed you. She could have claimed you. Elecia has a story, from Queen Amarial’s time. There was a man she wanted, and she sent the dogfish to mark him, but his mother was a noble of the queen’s household, and she sent him into the army instead, sent him north against the Chadroni. That kept him safe for a year and a day, but then his mother died, and his sister, and another sister, and then his aunt and her daughters, until at last he had to come home. Even then, he tried to keep away from the river, but one night, on a high spring tide, he went out, not meaning to go further than the Horse Tower. But he never came home again. They found his chewed bones at Midsummer, wedged in a sandbar below Customs Point. They only knew him by his rings.”

  Eslingen grimaced. Probably it was nothing, a good-son’s tale embroidered beyond all resemblance to the truth. But in the wavering light, with the memory of the dogfish all too fresh, it was easy to believe. “They didn’t touch me,” he said, and wished he were more reassured.

  “Then she can’t touch you,” de Vian said. “Not now. Not yet! But you must be careful.”

  “I fully intend to be,” Eslingen said. “Which is why I want everything you know about the Riverdeme.”

  “I’m trying.” De Vian licked his lips nervously. “Won’t you come in? If you’d talk to me, I know that would help me remember.”

  “I have an appointment.” In the distance, a clock struck six, and he grimaced. “And I’m late already.”

  “With Rathe.”

  Eslingen gave him a sharp look, not liking the note in the boy’s voice. “Not your business, but—yes. With my leman.”

  He hoped that would be enough to silence him, but instead de Vian’s mouth twisted. “He doesn’t deserve you. He’s no one, a southriver pointsman—”

  “And I,” Eslingen said, with sudden fury, “am a motherless man from Esling.”

  “I don’t believe you! I’d be so much better for you, I’d take proper care of you, I’d never leave your side—”

  “Enough!” Eslingen glared at him, and saw the boy’s eyes fill with tears.

  “But I love you.” De Vian took two steps forward, pressed both hands against Eslingen’s chest. Eslingen caught his wrists before he could move closer, and they stood frozen for an instant before Eslingen stepped back, holding the boy at arm’s length.

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “You don’t even—” He stopped himself, knowing what he would have said at seventeen if someone had told him he didn’t know what love was. “You don’t know me—all you know is that I have a commission and fine clothes and a handsome face.”

  “And that you saved the stolen children two years past.” De Vian tried to press closer. “You stopped the plot against the queen. Of course I love you. Only let me love you.”

  “That’s broadsheet folly,” Eslingen said. “Something out of the playhouse, fine speeches and nonsense. It’s not love.” He shook his head, unable to find the words, knowing that even if he did, there was nothing that he would have believed at seventeen. Love is strange and complicated, he wanted to say; it kindles quick as tinder and it takes years to ripen. This is lad’s-love, quick to flower, quicker to fade: and no one in the throes of that passion ever believed it. He set de Vian firmly at arm’s length. “And even if it was, I don’t love you. Now. You’re a decent ensign, you’ve earned your chance with the Guard, but if you keep this up, I’ll send you packing. What I want from you is an account of the Riverdeme’s stories. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.” De Vian swallowed hard, his face full of humiliated fury, and Eslingen pretended not to see.

  “Good. Then we’ll talk tomorrow.” He turned away without waiting for an answer, wishing he’d handled that better—wishing Rathe had been wrong. But now all he could do was hope it blew over.

  Deukeyn’s baths were crowded: some of the theaters were still closed, Rathe guessed, recognizing any number of actors using the main pool, and he was grateful to see that Eslingen had claimed one of the two-woman tubs and was defending it against all comers. As Rathe approached, he lifted a dripping hand in greeting, and Verre Siredy rose from his haunches with a rueful smile.

  “Enjoy yourselves,” he said, and moved off toward the communal hot plunge.

  The wooden tub was set into the stone floor, and Rathe could feel the heat beneath it as he unwound himself from his towel and climbed gingerly into the steaming water. It smelled of rosemary, good for his rubbed hands, and he slid down into the water, letting it rise over his shoulders. Deukeyn’s didn’t offer the privacy of the Sandureigne, or the pricey extras like wine and food, but they were far enough from the other tubs that a quiet conversation would not be overheard.

  Eslingen leaned back at his end of the tub, resting his arms on the sides. His loosed hair trailed in the water. “Any luck?”

  Rathe shook his head. “I left a note for him, and for Istre, too, but he’s gone off, and nobody seems to know where. You?”

  Eslingen looked away, mouth tightening. “Not so much, either.”

  “I’d have thought your pretty ensign would tie himself in knots to keep you happy.”

  “Not funny, Nico.”

  Rathe lifted his eyebrows. “I’m not to make jokes about the boy?”

  It hung in the balance for an instant, and then Eslingen said, precisely, “I have been an idiot, and I’m not happy about it.”

  Rathe closed his mouth over his first answer. “Made advances, did he? I told you he would.”

  “Yes, I know you did,” Eslingen said. “And, yes, he did. And I’m mortified I didn’t see it coming, and he’s mortified I said no, and the upshot is, I left him writing down river stories and trying not to weep, and I’m left wondering how to be rid of him gracefully, because the only cure is distance.”

  “You really didn’t see this coming.”

  Eslingen’s eyes fell. ”I thought if I ignored it, he’d get the message.”

  “Oh, Philip.” Rathe felt a knot ease behind his breastbone, a tightness he’d been trying to ignore. “You said it yourself, distance is the cure.”

  “And I’ll be glad to give it to him,” Eslingen said. “Maybe I’ll send him to the university, let him charm the librarians out of their books.”

  “It may come to that,” Rathe agreed. “But at least the matter’s dealt with.”

  “For now.”

  “And that’s good enough for me,” Rathe said. “On more important matters, let me remind you, you said you’d pay for dinner, too.”

  Eslingen was as good as his word, paying an extra two demmings for the masseur, who worked vigorously at Rathe’s back and shoulders until he felt like a well wrung rag, then adding another few demmings for a decent bottle of wine and one of Wicked’s tables with its own underfoot warming box. Rathe felt as though he ought to protest, but he could feel his body finall
y relaxing, the abused muscles easing. He was emotionally eased as well, now that Eslingen had finally acknowledged and rejected de Vian’s crush—it wasn’t so much that he’d thought Eslingen would accept the boy’s favors, he realized, draining a third cup of wine, but that Eslingen refused to see it. Which was Eslingen for you, and annoying, but at least there was no harm done. Rathe allowed himself a fleeting smile, and pressed his shoulder against Eslingen’s as they walked home in the dark.

  They hadn’t spoken of the dogfish or the Riverdeme since they’d left the Chain Tower, but now as he lit the lamp the shadows seemed full of splashing and the glint of teeth. He shivered, then scowled at his own reaction, crossed deliberately to the chest in the most shadowed corner and began to shed his clothes. Eslingen hesitated by the stove.

  “I might stay up a bit longer. Read some broadsheets.”

  “Read them in bed.” Rathe didn’t want to be alone even in lamplight, not with the memory of teeth and fins and fog waiting to ambush him. Eslingen stood irresolute, then shrugged and collected the lamp.

  It was colder in the bedroom—someday they would buy a second stove—and they pressed close together under the heavy blankets until the sheets warmed. Rathe tried to settle, closing his eyes against the fickle lamplight, felt Eslingen shift to see more clearly, and heard the rustle of paper as he sorted through the stack. He was drifting off himself, lulled by Eslingen’s warmth and the aftereffects of the baths and the wine, when Eslingen’s whole body jerked sharply.

  “You all right?” Rathe propped himself up on one elbow.

  “Fine.”

  Lying so close, Rathe could feel the quickness of his breath, felt the gasp and stretch as he got himself under control, and ventured to lay a hand on the other’s shoulder. “You should get some sleep.”

  Eslingen snorted, but reached for the lamp, quenching it and letting the broadsheets drift to the floor in a flurry of paper.

  “You’re picking them up in the morning,” Rathe said, and was relieved to feel the other laugh softly.

  They lay for a while in silence, the night closing in. In the distance, the clock at Point of Dreams stuck the half-hour; the clock at the Bells struck half a minute later, a dull and muffled sound. Was it raining again? Rathe cocked his head, but couldn’t tell if he was hearing rain or just a rising wind. Wind would be good, would drive away the fog.

  “That was…unpleasant,” he said at last, and beside him Eslingen stirred.

  “How are your hands?”

  “Sore. They’ll heal.”

  Eslingen shifted, drawing Rathe’s fingers gingerly into his own hands, stilled instantly when he felt Rathe flinch. “Shouldn’t you bandage that?”

  “Nah, let the air get at it.” Rathe turned again, winding himself around Eslingen so that legs and arms and all were well entwined. They didn’t often sleep like that, and he was surprised and relieved when Eslingen shifted to match him, pulling him close under the blankets. Rathe closed his eyes, but couldn’t banish the memory of the dogfish hauling itself into the boat, teeth as long as a man’s finger ready to rend and tear. They were more than capable of killing a woman, Fanier had the bodies to prove it, and he pressed tighter against Eslingen, feeling only smooth skin, not the scars that were visible in daylight. The dogfish would have left scars worse than anything either of them bore—if they’d survived the attack. “Those damned fish.”

  Eslingen’s hold tightened again. “I don’t like your river, Nico. More to the point, I don’t think it likes me.”

  “It’ll be better when the stars change,” Rathe said, and hoped it was true.

  The morning dawned brighter and almost clear, streaks of blue showing through the clouds. The wind was up, blowing away the last traces of the previous days’ fog, and plucking at Eslingen’s second-best hat as he made his way toward the Guard’s barracks an hour past second sunrise. Rathe was already at Point of Sighs, chivvying his people to find connections between Dammar and Trys, and waiting impatiently for Raunkeleyn or b’Estorr to answer his note, and Eslingen hoped one of those would bear fruit. After last night, he doubted anything useful would appear in de Vian’s stories, but he supposed he had to inquire. He had to act as though nothing untoward had happened, that was the only way they would both get through this, but his steps lagged as he approached Manufactory Point.

  The arcade in front of the barracks was empty except for a few pots of struggling flowers, the stones swept bare of dust. Most likely, de Vian would be in the stables or riding, but it was better to be sure. Eslingen made his way along the row, and stopped to knock on the door that carried the plaque painted with the boy’s coat of arms. There was no answer, and he stooped to peer in the uncurtained window, but saw only the pair of neatly made beds and two small, empty tables. He straightened, heading for the stables, and paused in the side door to let his eyes adjust to the dim light.

  The air carried the familiar smells of horse and sweat and hay, and two of the junior company were mucking out stalls at the end of the row. From the look of their barrow, nearly full of dirty straw and droppings, they were nearly done, and Eslingen lifted his voice.

  “Hoy. Either of you seen de Vian this morning?”

  The older of the pair straightened, flipping her long braid back over her shoulders, and the younger man took the chance to lean on his pitchfork.

  “No, Captain, not since dinner last night.”

  Sendoya was in the main ring, supervising a group of riders, and Faraut leaned against the rails, watching. She pulled away at Eslingen’s approach and came to meet him, a broad grin splitting her homely face.

  “Captain! Good news, the Major-Sergeant talked the prices down enough that we were able to get all the horses we wanted. Including my mare.”

  “That is good news.” Eslingen looked past her, but none of the people on horseback were de Vian. “Have you seen de Vian?”

  “I thought he was supposed to be your ensign,” Faraut said.

  “I sent him back to barracks last night to write up a report for me,” Eslingen answered. “He was supposed to have it for me this morning.”

  Faraut frowned. “That’s not like him, he’s usually too eager. Wait, Rothas might know.” She lifted a hand and waved to the boy trundling the barrow toward the midden. “Taliour! Over here when you’re done!”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Taliour couldn’t release the barrow’s handles to wave back, but a few moment later he had reappeared, pulling his working coat hastily over his shoulder. “Ma’am, Captain?”

  “You share de Vian’s room, don’t you?” Faraut asked, and the boy nodded. He was a few years older than de Vian, hardly a boy any more, really, but with the big hands and slightly wary movements of someone not quite done growing.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “I’m looking for him,” Eslingen said. “He was supposed to have a report for me this morning.”

  Taliour hesitated. “He said something about that, yes.”

  Eslingen frowned, and Faraut drew herself up to her full height. “Out with it. Where’s he gone?”

  “He said he needed something,” Taliour said. “He didn’t say what.”

  “Start at the beginning,” Eslingen suggested.

  “He said he had to write something up for you,” Taliour said. “He didn’t say what, just that it was complicated—he was trying to remember things, and kept tearing up the papers, and finally he said he couldn’t remember and he’d just have to ask. And then he put on his coat and said he’d be back before curfew, only this morning his bed hadn’t been slept in.”

  “And you didn’t see fit to report that?” Faraut demanded.

  Taliour braced himself. “No, Sergeant.”

  “Did it occur to you that you should have done?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “Faraut,” Eslingen said. He didn’t like the way this felt, though he couldn’t have said precisely why. “Did he say where he was going? Or who he wanted to talk to?”

  “No, sir
.” Taliour’s eyes were fixed on the barracks roof. “It was something to do with your report, something he couldn’t remember.”

  “What else did he say?” Faraut demanded.

  Taliour glanced at Eslingen, then fixed his eyes on the roof again. “It wasn’t anything. I didn’t pay it any mind.”

  “What did he say?” Eslingen repeated.

  Taliour wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He said—he said you didn’t realize what you’d asked, that you didn’t understand, and if he didn’t come back, it would be your doing.”

  “Oh, for Seidos’s sake,” Faraut began.

  Eslingen lifted a hand. “What time did he leave?” If de Vian had been having trouble putting together the Riverdeme’s stories, the logical place to go was to the person from whom he’d heard them—Elecia Gebellin. Or even to his sister, but given the amount of time Elecia seemed to spend with Meisenta, it was likely that de Vian had gone to the Staenkas’ house.

  “Before dinner,” Taliour answered. “Curfew’s not till second sunrise, I thought sure he’d be back by then—and I was abed right after myself, I expected he’d come in. And then this morning I thought he’d stayed over rather than come home in the dark.”

  And that might still be true, Eslingen thought. It was too soon to worry. “Do you know where his sister lives? The Vidame d’Entrebeschaire?”

  Taliour shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Point of Hearts?” Faraut said. “I remember Balfort saying once he was glad to have a bed here, it was a long walk to get here from the Western Reach.”

  “She spends a lot of time at Staenka House,” Eslingen said, as much to reassure himself as to disagree. “I’ll try there first, and then on the vidame’s residence. If he comes back in the meantime, Faraut, keep him here.”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, and Eslingen turned away.

  He made his best speed across the bridge at Point of Graves, skirting the gallows at its foot, the thin sun warm on his woolen coat. If de Vian had gone to the source of his stories—well, what difference did it make? By the boy’s account, she would have enjoyed retelling her tales of terror; the only real risk was that she would embellish them. And yet, too many threads knotted around the Staenkas’ household. Mattaes accused of murder, Dammar poisoned with one of their teas—not important, in and of itself, except that Meisenta had lied about it. And Elecia was spreading tales of the Riverdeme. To what end? That was the real question, and he had no answer. It would be wise to walk warily.