“Nico,” Cambrai said.
“I want answers,” Rathe said. At the end of the hall, he could see a maidservant peeping out through the kitchen door, her hair fraying loose from the braid she slept in. “You. Light some lamps.”
“And who are you to give orders in Madame’s house?” Rathe recognized Meisenta’s assistant Telawen, hurrying down the stairs in a hastily-donned skirt and bodice, her feet bare in her shoes and her hair stuffed hastily under an unmatching cap. “And at this hour of the night.”
“Urgent business,” Rathe answered, and there was a note in his tone that silenced her. She nodded to the maid, who ducked into the parlor, clutching her bedgown around her, and in the quiet house, Rathe heard the clatter of the fire irons as she stirred up the stove. “I need to see her now.”
“I’ll fetch her.” Telawen hurried back up the stairs.
“Nico,” Cambrai said again.
Rathe glanced over his shoulder, saw points and pontoises for once united in discomfort, eyeing the fine furniture uneasily. “I need all of them off balance,” he said. He would not have had to explain to Eslingen, and suppressed the stabbing pain. “I need them hurried. I need them making mistakes, Euan.”
Cambrai grimaced. “I’ll follow your lead.”
His tone was more doubtful than his words, but Rathe made himself nod back. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Lights appeared at the top of the stairs, a branch of candles held high, and Meisenta started down the stairs, one hand on the rail, the other on Telawen’s arm. She was as plainly and elegantly dressed as ever, an expensive black wool gown that showed the fine white linen of her chemise at collar and cuffs. Her hair was brushed neatly back beneath her lace cap, and the shadows made her look momentarily younger than she was.
“What has happened, Adjunct Point?”
Rathe looked past her to see the rest of the family crowding down the stairs behind her, Aucher in his bedgown and Redel in a loose dress, her hair braided for sleep. Mattaes had at least managed to put on shirt and breeches and, yes, there was Elecia behind him, balancing on one foot as she put on her shoes.
“A question first, madame, and then I’ll explain. Is the Vidame d’Entrebeschaire here?”
Meisenta’s eyebrows rose. “Not to my knowledge. Elecia?”
“No.” Elecia was still fumbling with her shoes.
“Where does she live?”
“In Point of Hearts,” Elecia answered. “At the house of Oriane Flying, not far from the Chain.”
“Go,” Cambrai said to one of the pontoises, and Rathe nodded.
“We’ll talk, madame.” He waved his hand toward the parlor door, and then remembered. “In the parlor?”
“Make free of my house,” Meisenta said, not without irony, and swept through the door ahead of him. Rathe waited until the others had gone ahead before he followed them.
Meisenta settled herself in her usual chair, but it was Telawen who stood beside her rather than her husband. Aucher hung by the fireplace, frowning sleepily, and Elecia said, “Madame—”
“Be silent.” Meisenta didn’t move, still as a statue in the enormous chair. “I am sure the adjunct point has good reason for bringing so much of the dock to our door.”
“This past afternoon, the vidame gave Philip vaan Esling a key to your warehouse, madame, and told him there was something terribly amiss—that the old river spirit, the Riverdeme, had been loosed, and was responsible for several recent deaths.” Someone gasped at that, but in the flickering candlelight, Rathe couldn’t tell who had made the sound. “This fit with other evidence we had uncovered. We used that key, madame, to enter your warehouse—”
“Another of Sighs’ lawful entries?” Redel snapped.
Rathe ignored her. “And search for signs of the Riverdeme. There we were attacked, and Captain vaan Esling is missing. Taken. I want him back. Now.”
There was a murmur of voices, and Elecia’s rose about the rest. “And you suspect the Riverdeme? She’s a fairy tale. This is madness.”
Redel gave her a sharp look. “You were happy enough to tell her tales.”
Elecia shook her head. “They’re stories, nothing more.”
“She is history. A part of Astreiant. And the bounds that held the Riverdeme have been broken,” Rathe said. “Did you think no one would realize? There are greater dogfish loose in the river, the pontoises have seen them, and the deadhouse holds bodies of men killed by them. The university has taken notice. The Riverdeme has my leman, and I will have him back.”
“The vidame gave you the key,” Aucher began, and Elecia broke in.
“Then she’s the one you need to talk to.”
“I should tell you, dame, that she spoke of your…obsession with the Riverdeme. She feared what you might do,” Rathe said, and was pleased to see Elecia flinch.
“I don’t understand,” Mattaes began, but even as he spoke, his expression shifted, as though he were adding up a total that displeased him. “It was your idea to hire bes’Anthe, you encouraged Meisenta to let me handle that business.”
“Strange things have been happening in the tunnels,” Redel said slowly. “I didn’t believe the boatmen, but….” She looked at Elecia. “You heard their gossip.”
“I did.”
The painted clock on the mantel struck the quarter-hour, and Rathe flinched. The tide was on the rise, steady and inexorable, and if Eslingen was in the drowning cell and if it still functioned that was barely a chance of survival. And if he was not, if the Riverdeme had carried him somewhere else, if he was lying unconscious in some tunnel or cross channel, that was almost no chance at all. He could not, would not lose Eslingen this way. “I am out of patience,” he said. “And I am out of time. Tell me where the Riverdeme has taken vaan Esling, or I’ll see that Sighs calls a point on this house for every scheme, every misstep, every petty shortcut that has ever been mentioned within these walls. I’ll find enough to see you locked in cells for the rest of your lives—and far less pleasant ones than Mattaes occupied—and the entire city will wonder at your fall.” He heard Cambrai draw breath sharply. “Do you understand me?”
“You wouldn’t….” Redel began.
Rathe bared teeth in something like a snarl. “Don’t push me.”
“I have heard enough.” Meisenta, her hands clenched tight on the arms of her chair, spoke. “And more than you think, Elecia. I don’t care whether it’s you or your Dis-damned leman, if you’ve freed the Riverdeme, you’ve gone too far. Do not dare bring further shame to us. Tell Rathe what he wants to know.”
“But I don’t know!” Elecia spread her hands with a fair assumption of innocence. “Truly, Meisenta, I don’t.”
“I married your brother for the good of this house,” Meisenta said. “Because you offered me promises, and, I will admit to my shame, because you were fetching and clever and flirted nicely, for all that you had a leman. Those tales you told me, when Aliez was absent, how you’d maybe made a mistake stepping so far outside your class, not a word of them was true, were they? You, he, brought nothing to the marriage, not even a pauper’s dowry, just your clever tongues and your bright ideas. There’s no contract to break, no husband’s goods to return. I can repudiate him this minute—with but three words, Elecia, I can leave you penniless, homeless and helpless and friendless. Answer the man!”
“Meisenta…. ” Elecia went to her knees at Meisenta’s side, both hands on Meisenta’s knee. “I swear, we meant no harm. I made a mistake, a terrible one, and I shouldn’t have shared it, but, oh, this house, I so wanted to be part of it, to be with you however I could—”
“You can bear witness, Adjunct Point,” Meisenta said. “And I believe the cap’pontoise is here as well?”
Cambrai cleared his throat. “I am.”
“Then understand I make this announcement formally,” Meisenta said. “As it applies to my present husband Aucher Gebellin, and to all his kin. I renounce—”
“Wait!” Elecia clutched at her sk
irts. “Wait, please, Meisenta—”
“Tell him where his leman is.”
“The drowning cell.” Elecia gulped tears. “She’d have taken him to the drowning cell. We owe her a death.”
A cold calm filled Rathe. This was what he had needed, the key that would save Eslingen’s life. All they needed now was the place.
Cambrai asked, “Trys wasn’t good enough for her?”
Elecia gasped again, looking wildly around as though seeking a way to deny him. “She didn’t want him, he wasn’t right. I don’t know, it’s Aliez’s family that served her all those years ago. I just did what she told me.”
“Take me there,” Rathe said.
Elecia nodded frantically. “I will, I swear!” She looked at Meisenta. “Please be kind, please be kind.”
“Madame Staenka, you and I have unfinished business, and I’ll leave a pointsman here to secure things. But this won’t wait,” Rathe said.
“I’ll stand the point,” Meisenta said, and he believed her.
CHAPTER 14
Eslingen leaned against the wall of the drowning cell, his breath coming in heaving gasps. The water was ankle-deep now, after the last session of pumping, but already he could feel it creeping higher, cold fingers tracing a path up his calves. His arms and shoulders burned from the unfamiliar exercise, and he was shivering violently as the sweat dried on his upper body.
“Balfort?”
“Sir?” De Vian’s voice was shaking, but Eslingen pretended not to hear.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Eslingen could hear the boy’s teeth chattering. He sat huddled against the wall, arms wrapped tight around himself. The water covered his outstretched foot, lapped around his hips, and Eslingen made himself straighten, stripping off his coat. The skirts were soaked, but the upper body was only sweat-damp, and maybe it would be better than nothing. “Here. Take this.”
He waded around the curve of the room, steadying himself against the wall as things rolled and shifted under his feet, and Balfort took it warily.
“What about you?”
“I’m staying warm enough,” Eslingen said, with an attempt at a smile, and tightened his aching muscles as another shiver wracked him. At least de Vian was too disciplined to call him a liar, though he saw the doubt in the boy’s face. “At least I will be soon enough.”
The water was rising, faster now, and he suppressed a groan. A thousand strokes, he told himself. Just that, and then we’ll see. He turned back along the wall, and something slipped underfoot, sending him flying. He caught himself on hands and knees, swearing, soaked now from knee to neck, and flailed for a moment in the swirling water before he could get to his feet. The water was knee-deep now, he could hear it rushing in the channels, and he reached for the pump handle in desperate haste. He pulled hard, and nothing happened, the antique mechanism suddenly balky. He cursed again, thrusting up, and felt the lever engage. He braced himself, legs spread, and began to pump again, counting each stroke.
A hundred strokes, and the water was still rising. He counted three hundred before he was sure that that inflow had slowed, and then at last the water began to drop again. He counted five hundred, then seven hundred, a thousand, but the water stayed stubbornly at the middle of his calf. His arms and back were burning again, his palms raw, but he didn’t dare stop. Always until now he’d been able to get ahead of the water, give himself a break, a chance to catch his breath and let his muscles unknot, but now the water was rising in spite of all his efforts, crawling toward his knees. Maybe he was imagining it, maybe it was just the waves caused by his movement, but the thoughts fell flat as the water crept higher still.
He was counting again, though he had lost his place and started over at least once, the lever stiff in his hands. Five hundred strokes, and the water was almost at his knees; five hundred more, and it was only a little higher, but arms and shoulders and back were on fire. His palms had blistered and split, the salt of his sweat and the river water burning on raw skin. Maybe he could cut a piece from his shirt, protect them that way—but that would mean stopping, and the tide was faster than ever now.
Surely they were approaching high tide. Surely the inflow would ease soon. He hauled on the handle again, and felt the mechanism shift and slip. He stumbled forward a step and caught himself, but when he pulled down, the handle moved too easily, as though something had come loose. He tried again, feeling the water surge against his skin, and still nothing happened.
“Balfort. Can you stand?”
“What’s happened?”
Eslingen could hear splashing and then a cry of pain, but couldn’t take his attention off the pump. He jiggled the lever sideways, felt something catch, and tried again. The pump caught, a solid half-stroke, and then slipped free again. “Damn it! There’s a problem with the pump, I’m trying to fix it, but—”
He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, couldn’t bear even to think it. Stars bad for water: did that mean even the pump would break under his hand? He worked the lever sideways again, felt it catch, and pulled down more slowly. This time, it held, and he could feel the water moving again with each stroke. He hauled up and down, not daring to move too fast, and thought the machinery would hold at least a little longer. Just until the peak of the tide, he thought. That can’t be far off now. But he had lost all track of time, and the distant lantern-light gave him no help at all.
“The pump’s broken?” De Vian’s voice scaled up, and Eslingen shook his head, fighting to keep his strokes shorter than before. Too deep, too strong, and he risked damaging the antique mechanism even further.
“No, it’s all right now—”
He heard splashing, and then a heavier splash and a cry of pain, and risked a look. De Vian sprawled full length in the rising water, his face contorted in pain as he tried to drag himself upright. “I can help—”
“I’ve got it,” Eslingen said. “We must be almost at high tide, it’s just a little longer.”
More splashing, and another whimpered curse, and he saw de Vian roll over, dragging himself back toward the wall. Sitting, the water was nearly to his chin, and Eslingen swore under his breath.
“You need to stand, Balfort. The water’s gaining. If you can stand, it’ll be all right, I can slow it down long enough, but you have to stand up.”
De Vian braced himself and heaved, tears mixing with sweat and river water, but slid back into the water with another heavy splash. “I-I can’t. Dis Aidones, I’m so cold….”
Eslingen kept pumping, while his thoughts raced. The water was still coming in fast, but he could spare a minute or two to lift de Vian to his feet. It would be better if there were some way to keep him upright, something to tie him to, or something to tie him with, but he’d used his neckcloth on the splint, and there was no time to tear his shirt into something usable…. And there was nothing to tie him to except the pump itself, no handy rings or iron staples set into the walls, but maybe that was better than nothing. He counted ten more strokes, feeling the water hesitate, and let go of the lever, splashed through water now nearly waist-deep to catch de Vian under the armpits and haul him upright. The movement set off new agony in his back and shoulders, and de Vian cried out in turn as his broken leg dragged hard against the ground.
“I’m sorry,” Eslingen said. “But you have to stand. Just for a little.”
De Vian mumbled something that Eslingen chose to take as agreement. Eslingen shifted his hold, trying to let the boy’s injured leg float freely, and stepped on the remains of the rope ladder. His foot twisted under him, and he fell sideways, his head grazing the stones with sickening force. He curled in on himself, unable for an instant to do anything but cradle the pain, and a twist of rope looped around his elbow, holding him down. He fought it, by instinct at first and then as his lungs burned and he couldn’t find the surface, with frantic purpose. His free hand found de Vian, and the boy’s hand closed over his, tugging awkwardly. It was
enough to orient him, and he managed to get his head above water. He dragged in a shuddering breath, freeing himself from the rope, and pulled himself upright, reaching for de Vian again.
The water was waist-high now, and climbing greedily, and the lantern-light seemed to have faded. Eslingen hauled de Vian to his feet, ignoring the stifled yelp, and dragged him through the deepest water until he could reach the pump itself. De Vian blinked dully, and Eslingen wrapped his arms around it.
“Link your fingers. That’s right, just like that, well done. Lean on the pump, hold onto it, you’ll be all right—”
He reached for the pump handle himself, the rags of his shirt floating around him like weeds, drew it down hard. It took an instant to catch, but then he felt the welcome resistance and leaned heard against it, heedless of the pain in his hands and back and head. Something was trickling down his cheek, and when he licked his lips he tasted iron and salt, the ugly taste of blood. Or river water, he told himself, the river was brackish, and all the gods knew filthy on top of it, he might not be bleeding, though his head throbbed with the beat of his heart.
De Vian clung to the pump opposite him, his thin face against the rusted metal, eyes half closed. His fingers loosened and Eslingen swore.
“Balfort! Wake up, boy, hold on.”
The long lashes fluttered, and he straightened, his hands tightening again, though a grimace of agony passed over his face.
“Good,” Eslingen said. “That’s good.”
De Vian managed the flicker of a smile in answer, and Eslingen groped for something more to say, something, anything, to keep the boy alive and focused. He didn’t dare let go of the pump handle, not when the water was above his waist and kept there only by the constant effort. All he had was words, and he drew breath, knowing what a slim lifeline they could be.
“Balfort. Talk to me. You said your family served the Riverdeme?”
“Long time ago.” De Vian’s voice was a whisper, barely louder than the water. “My father’s side, his grandfather.”
Point of Sighs Page 33