“You may regret what you see,” she said, but hung the lantern from the grating’s edge. The cold light spilled down, sparkling from the water still rising around the pump.
“Aliez!” de Vian cried again, but she turned away, her footsteps receding across the stone. In the new silence, the sound of the water increased, and de Vian caught his breath.
“Don’t we need to pump?”
Eslingen shook his head. “Not yet—it’s not deep enough to engage the pump properly, we should wait until it’s worth the effort.” And now there were two of them, he thought. With two of them, they’d surely survive the first tide, and maybe another, and maybe even the third, and long before then Rathe would find them. And then de Vian’s awkward position, half sprawled, half sitting against the cell wall, fully registered. “Are you all right?”
De Vian tried to stand, but succeeded only in sitting up all the way with a cry of pain. “My leg—I landed wrong.”
And just like that, the hope was gone. Eslingen took a careful breath, made sure his voice stayed relaxed and easy. “Let’s take a look.”
He splashed through the spreading puddle to kneel at de Vian’s side, ran a hand down the boy’s right leg. He felt the bone shift under his touch as he reached de Vian’s calf, and de Vian drew breath sharply.
“There.”
“Here?” Eslingen laid both hands on de Vian’s calf, and felt him arch like a man lightning-struck. Both bones broken, if he was any judge.
“Yes.” De Vian’s breath hissed between his teeth, but he managed to shift so that he was sitting almost straight against the wall.
“All right,” Eslingen said, and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “All right.” That needed a splint; if he could brace it well enough, de Vian might even be able to take a spell at the pump, and there might be enough wood and rope in the remains of the ladder to do the job. He drew his knife and began sawing at the thick cable. At last he’d freed two of the wooden boards. They were too wide, clumsy, but they were better than nothing. The rope, on the other hand, was too thick to tie securely, and instead he unwound his cravat and knelt again at de Vian’s side, sawing at the fabric to cut it into three long lengths.
“This is my fault,” de Vian said. “I’m sorry. I thought….”
He let his voice trail off, and Eslingen gave him a quick glance. De Vian was deathly pale in the lantern’s light, his lips bloody where he’d bitten them.
“Where are we?” Eslingen asked.
“Under our old house, the one we rent out…its deepest cellar.” De Vian’s breath caught as he shifted his weight.
“Where’s the house?” Not that it mattered, Eslingen thought, not with them trapped down here, but it might give him some rough idea of how long it would take Rathe to find them.
“Off Bonfortune Row. Point of Sighs, not far west of the Queen’s Bridge.”
A chance, then, Eslingen thought. Rathe was learning Sighs, and what he didn’t know, he could persuade his new station to tell. Assuming they weren’t involved. He thrust that thought aside. “Your sister. Did she kill them—bes’Anthe, I mean, and Dammar?”
“I don’t know. Probably.” De Vian rolled his head from wide to side, wincing. “I knew our family served the Riverdeme, at least on grandfather’s side, but that was centuries ago. I never thought she’d take it seriously.”
I owe the Riverdeme a death, d’Entrebeschaire had said. Eslingen shivered, and made his tone as light as possible. “Too common for her?
Something that was almost a smile flashed across de Vian’s face. “We’re not so noble, for all Aliez’s graces. Our grandmother was a silver merchant, she bought Mother a place at court after the League wars.”
And d’Entrebeschaire had lost that place on her mother’s death, and had nothing with which to maintain herself and her younger brothers, but how freeing the Riverdeme helped that, Eslingen couldn’t see. Unless she was working with Trys? “Do you know what she wants?”
“No.” De Vian shook his head again. “Gods, my leg!”
“Almost ready,” Eslingen said. He was no physician, knew little more than field aid, but surely that was all that was required. Except that the boards were too wide, and too short, and he had none of the tools, no sword or hand-axe to knock them into better shape…. He shoved that thought aside, and shrugged out of his coat and then his waistcoat. “Can you lift it?”
De Vian drew a pained breath, but managed. Eslingen hastily laid out the strips he’d cut from the cravat, then slid the folded waistcoat on top of them. De Vian gasped with relief and lowered his leg, and Eslingen wrapped the rest of the waistcoat fabric over it. He set the boards on each side of the calf and tied the fabric strips as tightly as he dared.
“Any better?”
De Vian’s face was whiter than paper, but he managed a nod. “This is all my fault.”
Eslingen sat back on his heels. “I don’t see how.”
“You don’t understand.” De Vian closed his eyes. “You’ll hate me forever, and I only wanted—”
“What did you do?” Eslingen kept his voice even with an effort.
“I told her what you suspected. I was angry, it was stupid, but I went back to the house and I told her, and she said she’d make it right. As long as I stayed out of the way, she could fix things.”
“Not so much.” Eslingen stamped ruthlessly on his rising anger. This had all been a trap—Rathe had suspected as much, which made it worse—but there was nothing to be gained by shouting at the boy.
De Vian went on as though he hadn’t spoken, his eyes open now and pleading. “She’s—we’ve always rented out this house, even before Mother died, but when the last tenant left, Aliez didn’t rent it out again right away. With all our bills due and the bailiffs at the door! I should have known she was hiding something. She made me promise to stay here, out of sight, but I followed her into the cellar and I found—” He waved one hand weakly at the walls around them. “This. I waited until I thought she was gone, and then I thought I could let you out.”
Except that it hadn’t worked. D’Entrebeschaire had known better than to trust her brother. Eslingen swallowed the words, and said, “Only she wasn’t gone.”
De Vian shook his head miserably. “I’m sorry, I only wanted—I was angry, but I couldn’t let her leave you here. I’ve been a fool.”
Yes, you have. The words were neither kind nor useful, and Eslingen swallowed them. “With two of us to pump, we have a chance. If you can stand.”
“I’ll try,” de Vian said, but made no move to lift himself.
Eslingen wished for a moment that he had a flask of brandy, and swore at his own stupidity. Might as well wish they were safe at Wicked’s, or drinking beer at the Old Brown Dog. “You may have to, but that’s what the splint is for. It’ll give you support if you need it.”
De Vian blinked, and then grimaced as he understood. “If you can’t keep up. If no one finds us.”
The water was lapping at his outstretched foot, and Eslingen stooped to loosen the strings that tied Balfort’s shoe. It ought to come off entirely, the boy’s foot would swell, but he would need every bit of protection his clothes could provide.
He shrugged back into his coat, and reached for the pump’s handle, drew it down against new resistance. The water was deep enough at last, and he heard something in the mechanism sigh heavily. He hoped that meant the water was being ejected, but there was no sign of it in the mage-light. He gave the handle five strokes, then ten, and felt the pressure ease. “Rathe will be looking for me. He’ll find us.”
“It’s gone down,” de Vian said.
Eslingen nodded, letting himself relax. The water was already creeping back, though, the dark pool now visibly swelling, and when it reached de Vian’s foot, he gave the handle five more pulls. It was horribly clever, he thought: not enough time to truly rest between sessions, and at the same time, not enough time for the exertion to warm him. Though that would change as the tide came in—in an hou
r or three, he’d be wishing for this much rest. He worked the pump again, bracing himself for the night ahead.
The winter-sun was well up by the time they reached Point of Sighs, the station clock striking the first hour of the new day. The duty point shot to her feet as Rathe crashed through the half-open door, and the points gathered by the nearer stove swung with hands on truncheons, only to freeze as they recognized Rathe and the cap’pontoise behind him.
“Fetch Sebern,” Rathe said, and a junior point leaped to obey.
She came down the stairs a moment later, wary frown deepening as she took in the scene below. “Rathe? What’s going on?”
“The Riverdeme is loosed,” he answered, and even in this extremity kept an eye on the room to see who was not surprised. “She has Eslingen.”
Sebern swore, sounding genuinely shocked, and leaned hard on the duty point’s table. “Where?”
“We don’t know,” Rathe said grimly. “Yet.” No one in the main room had seemed anything but shocked, but more than half the night-watch was missing. “I want everyone down here, now.”
Sebern nodded, and a pair of runners darted away, one up the opposite stair to the quarters, the other back to the workrooms to roust out anyone who hadn’t heard the shouting. They responded quickly, stumbling down the stairs to join the others in the main room: slightly more than half the watch, Rathe estimated, and picked out the few familiar faces.
“All right. I’ve been patient about things here at Sighs, haven’t pressed you about anyone who’s taken fees or had dealings with Jurien Trys, and I haven’t asked about the Riverdeme. My job here was to find out who killed your adjunct point, and up till now none of this has seemed relevant. But now…now the Riverdeme has taken Philip Eslingen. I want him back. And you’ll help me, or I’ll see each and every game and fee and fiddle of yours exposed.”
There was a moment of shocked silence, so deep that he could suddenly hear the quiet ticking of the station’s clock, and then at last Sebern cleared her throat.
“We’re with you, Rathe.”
Rathe nodded his thanks. “We think she took Eslingen to the drowning cell. Anyone have a guess where that might be?”
He was scanning the crowd for Couenter as he spoke, and wasn’t surprised to see her shoulder out from among the others. “No one knows for sure, Adjunct Point. It was closed long ago—unless the pontoises know something?”
Cambrai shook his head. “We’ve got people going through the channels, but the tide’s against us.”
“There have to have been connections above ground.” Rathe’s hands were tightly clenched, and he made himself relax. “Some story, some old warning. A hint. Anything.”
“The baths at Mother More’s,” someone said doubtfully. “They’re supposed to have been some sort of temple once.”
“That’s just talk,” someone else said, and the first speaker shrugged.
“But it is what they say.”
“Mother More’s baths,” Rathe repeated. “Anyone else?”
Couenter wiped her hands on her skirts. “The cross channel under the warehouse where Trys was killed. They say things lurk in the dark there. Though to be honest, sir, that’s as likely to be smugglers as the Riverdeme.”
Rathe nodded. “We’ll look.”
“And the folk at Crow Hall, they might know.”
“Crow Hall and the warehouse,” Rathe said. “Any others?”
A runner raised her hand shyly. “The tower house on Destrier Street?”
Rathe waited, but the runner seemed too nervous to go one. Sebern swore. “She’s right, that one was built on top of one of the Riverdeme’s watchtowers. Might be worth a look, though I don’t know if it even has a cellar.”
That made four places, all equally possible, all equally unlikely. And the tide came fast. Rathe swallowed that thought, and said, “All right. Couenter. Take backup, and talk to the folk at Crow Hall. If they know anything, send straight back to Sighs. Fellson, you take a couple of people and look into Mother More’s. I know you’ll have to wake her, tell her it’s points’ business and an emergency and don’t do anything that she can claim against us unless you have to. Is Ammis here?” Rathe scanned the group, and Ammis detached himself from the crowd.
“Here, Adjunct Point.”
“Take a squad—and a couple of pontoises, Euan, if we can borrow them?”
“All yours,” Cambrai answered, and Rathe hurried on.
“Thanks. Check out the channel under the warehouse. All of you be careful, I’ve already run into the Riverdeme tonight, and she sent the river against us. Her creatures are in the water, and the tide’s against you. If you think you’re onto something, don’t push it, but come back and see if you can locate the same spots above ground.”
He saw Ammis swallow hard, but the young man nodded. “Adjunct Point, what if we only find smugglers?”
“Squeeze them,” Rathe answered. “In fact, if you know anyone who even whispered the name Riverdeme—I don’t care if it’s just to scare the man in bed beside them or to keep their sons home at night, I want them squeezed. Someone in Sighs must know where the drowning room is.”
“Where do you want me?” Sebern asked.
Rathe paused. There was one more place to try, despite the hour: the Vidame d’Entrebeschaire had given Eslingen the warehouse key and sent them on their deadly search; whether she’d meant to do it, or, more likely, had been put up to it by one of the Staenkas or possibly a Gebellin, it was past time he talked to her. He didn’t know where she lodged, that had been Eslingen’s business, but the Staenkas would. “Stay here,” he said. “If anyone turns up something useful, call out the day watch and go after them. We may not have much time.”
“Should we inform the surintendant?”
Rathe grimaced. It was the only sensible thing to do, with the Riverdeme unbound and loose beneath the city, but he grudged every minute he’d have to spend scribbling an explanation. “Yeah. And the Guards, too. The more eyes the better. I’ll write the notes.”
Sebern nodded. “And then?”
Rathe collected Cambrai with a look. “Euan and I need to have a word with the Staenkas.”
“Take Tiesheld,” Sebern said, jerking her head at one of the biggest of the points, a good head taller than Rathe and built like a docker. “And Anhalt, too.”
Anhalt was wiry and graying, her skirts short enough to show practical shoes and bright clocked stockings. The knife at her left hip was a good two inches over the legal limit, and Rathe nodded. “And a couple of runners.”
“And at least one of mine,” Cambrai said.
“If we need to, I’ll call on Dreams,” Rathe said, to Sebern, who grimaced but nodded in agreement. “And don’t hesitate to call the day watch if you need them.”
“No, Adjunct Point.” She whirled away to organize her people, and Rathe drew a shaken breath. As long as it was in time—it had to be in time, there had to be time, if all the stories were true. The drowning cell gave its victims a chance, if they were strong enough, and Eslingen was stronger than most. Unless he had been hurt when taken by the dogfish. Rathe thought of those terrible teeth…or worse, the Riverdeme had drowned Philip, rolled him over in the dark waters—
Cambrai laid a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped. “We’ll find him.”
“We’d better.” Rathe seated himself at the duty point’s table, not bothering to trim the pen, and began scrawling his notes to the surintendant and to Coindarel. Under better circumstances, he would have worried about his phrasing, about making things clear and concise, but tonight he couldn’t spare the time. Get it all down, and then he could go. At last he was finished, and handed the papers to Sebern.
“See that the sur gets this. And the Prince-Marshal.”
“They’ll have questions,” Sebern said, and whistled for a runner.
“Answer them as best you can,” Rathe said, “and I’ll answer them when I get back. Tell them it’s all my doing.”
Someone
managed to flag down a low-flyer, and the driver let them all aboard with only a token protest, though Tiesheld and the smaller of the runners had to cling to the outside. The driver brought them carefully through the nearly empty streets and pulled up outside the Staenka house to give them a doubtful look.
“You’re sure this is it?” he asked, and Rathe nodded, reaching for a payment he couldn’t trouble to count.
“Yes. Wait for us, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
The driver glanced at the handful of seillings, thick eyebrows rising, and lifted his whip in acknowledgement. “I’ll be here when you want me.”
The street was dark, lights doused, the houses shuttered against the night—even the watchman’s box at the far end of the street was closed, though Rathe thought he saw a flicker of light through the cracks in the wood. He ignored that—let the watchman shout, this was points business—and hurried up the steps to pound on the Staenkas’ door. For a long moment, nothing happened, and he beat on the door again. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see lights wake in the house next door, and further down the street, and then Cambrai caught his hand before he could strike again.
“They’re coming.”
Rathe took a half step back, teetering on the edge of the step, and saw a light moving behind the shutters. He nodded sharply, and the door opened in front of him, the butler Drowe frowning out at him, anger turning to fear as he recognized Rathe.
“Adjunct Point? What’s happened?”
“I need to speak to Madame Staenka and her sister,” Rathe answered. “And is the vidame here?”
Drowe’s frown deepened again. “She is not.”
“The Gebellins?”
“Madame’s husband is here.” Drowe’s back was stiff with offense, but Rathe was beyond caring. “And Dame Elecia.”
“Get them, too.” Rathe took a step forward, and Drowe fell back, letting them into the darkened hall. “And Mattaes. I want the lot of them.”
“I’ll inform Madame Staenka,” Drowe began, and faltered at Rathe’s glare. He was already backing away when he spoke again. “Wait here….”
Point of Sighs Page 32