Point of Knives

by Melissa Scott

  “Now, that’s interesting,” Rathe said. “Yeah, let him know. I imagine he’s the one to claim the bodies, but if not, he’ll know who is.” He looked over his shoulder. “In the meantime, Eslingen—you and I need to have a talk.”

  “I’m at your disposal, Adjunct Point,” Eslingen murmured, and followed him up the stairs.

  He still hadn’t figured out exactly what he was going to tell Rathe, and Rathe didn’t give him any time to consider, either, just pointed to the spare chair and settled himself behind his table. He set the little-captain on the table-top, and it padded back and forth across the scattered papers before settling itself with an almost human sigh.

  “Right,” Rathe said. “What exactly were you doing at the Bay Tree, Philip?”

  “A job for Caiazzo,” Eslingen answered.

  “I’d got that far,” Rathe said, with a crooked grin. “Could you be a bit more specific?”

  “Old Steen was supposed to have a packet for Caiazzo,” Eslingen said. “I was supposed to collect it, the thought being that sending me was more discreet than having Old Steen come to the house, or for Caiazzo to go to him. Only he didn’t arrive as arranged, and when I finally gave up waiting, I practically tripped over his body.”

  “Not at the end of a blind alley, you didn’t,” Rathe said.

  “Metaphorically,” Eslingen said. “I told you, I looked around a bit to see if I could find out what had gone wrong.” He shook his head as a runner appeared with the pot of tea. “I really didn’t expect to find him dead. It wasn’t that sort of job at all.”

  “What sort of job was it?” Rather asked, and jammed a hand into his hair. “No, wait, don’t answer that! Unless—is it something I need to know?”

  “Not in the least,” Eslingen answered promptly, and Rathe grinned.

  “I’ll let that pass for now. Pour us some tea, will you?”

  Eslingen found the woven-wicker strainer and obliged, filling a pair of cheap pottery cups. He handed one to Rathe and took the other for himself, wrapping his fingers around the heating surface. “Seriously, Nico, I wasn’t expecting any trouble. Caiazzo wasn’t expecting trouble. I’d have come better armed if he had been.”

  “So why, then?” Rathe sipped cautiously at his tea. “Why kill not only your man but his aged father?”

  “Damned if I know,” Eslingen said. “Something personal, maybe?”

  Rathe smiled. “That’s always possible. But you’ll forgive me if having Hanse involved makes me just a bit—wary.”

  “Caiazzo wouldn’t kill him,” Eslingen said. “He was buying—goods, shall we say? A straightforward piece of business.”

  “If outside the law,” Rathe said, and Eslingen gave him a limpid stare.

  “You know I can’t answer that, Adjunct Point.”

  “Not that you need to,” Rathe said.

  Eslingen laughed. “Touché.”

  Rathe shook himself. “All right, I’ll buy that. But if it’s not because of Caiazzo’s business—what, then?”

  Eslingen rubbed his neck, the ache of a sleepless night settling into his bones. “It might—and I stress the word might, as in only possibly and remotely—have something to do with the business. Someone wanting to muscle in. But it wasn’t expected, and Caiazzo didn’t kill him.”

  Rathe shook his head, but he was smiling again. “Right. I’ll bear that in mind, too: a mysterious something that might possibly have provoked someone to try to muscle in? That’s very helpful, Philip.”

  “I try,” Eslingen said, with exaggerated modesty, but sobered quickly. “I’ll ask around, if you’d like. Caiazzo will want this person caught, if only as a lesson, so he might be willing to help.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Rathe said, and looked up as the door opened. The little-captain sat up just as sharply, brown eyes alert. “What is it, Lennar?”

  “Excuse me, Adjunct Point, but Young Steen’s here. About his father’s body.”

  “Show him up,” Rathe said. Eslingen started to rise, but Rathe waved for him to sit. “Stay,” he said. “You can speak for Caiazzo if need be.”

  That was a double-edged sword, too, Eslingen thought, and sank back into his chair.

  The man who appeared in the doorway was tall and sun-browned, his long hair bleached to the color of straw. He was younger than he looked at first sight—the lines around his eyes were carved by weather, not age—and he wore a decent coat over sailor’s wide breeches, with a kerchief of bright Silklands printing to close the neck of his shirt. The little-captain scrambled to its feet at the sight of him, and launched itself into his arms. The sailor caught him with a fond curse, submitted to being licked on chin and nose before tucking the dog firmly into the crook of his arm.

  “There’s one question I don’t have to ask,” Rathe said, with a wry smile. “You’d be Old Steen’s son.”

  The sailor nodded. “They call me Young Steen. I’m master of the Soeuraine of Bedarres.” He glanced at the dog, still trying frantically to lick his face. “They tell me Dad’s dead?”

  “I’m sorry,” Rathe said. “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was shot with a birdbolt,” Rathe said. “And—your grandfather was knifed as well.”

  “Dead?”

  “I’m sorry,” Rathe said again.

  “Damn it to hell.” Young Steen lifted the dog, buried his face in its fur. “Who—and why?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Rathe said. “But we’ll find out.”

  “Whatever fee—” Steen began, then shook his head. “No, I know you now. You’re the one who doesn’t take fees.”

  “I don’t,” Rathe said. From his tone, it was still a sensitive point—but then, Eslingen thought, most of Astreiant’s pointsmen were happy to take an extra seiling or five to ensure a job well done. “What you can do is answer some questions.”

  “Yeah,” Steen said. “Yes, of course.” He glanced at Eslingen then, as though his presence had only just registered. “Who’s this?”

  “Philip Eslingen,” Rathe answered. “He found your father’s body.”

  “Oh, yes?” There was a definite note of suspicion in Young Steen’s voice, and Eslingen straightened slightly.

  “I was supposed to meet him, on my employer’s behalf—Hanselin Caiazzo.”

  Steen nodded, not entirely appeased, looked back at Rathe. “You’re sure of him?”

  “I am,” Rathe said, and Eslingen felt an unexpected warmth steal through him.

  “Right.” Steen took a deep breath, resettled the dog against his elbow. “What can I tell you?”

  “Whatever you can,” Rathe said. “Anything of his business, enemies, anyone you can think of who might have done this—or who might have it in for Grandad, for that matter. I’ve been assuming your father was the primary target, but I’ve no real proof of it.”

  Steen hissed softly through his teeth. “His business I don’t know much of, or Grandad’s. I’ve been at sea the last six months.”

  “But you knew he had dealings with Caiazzo,” Rathe said.

  “He’d done in the past,” Steen answered. “It’s no surprise to hear. Grandad, though, he’s retired, he’s got no business, except what he does for Dame Lulli, and that’s his choice, Dad and me, we’d have taken care of him—” He broke off, shaking his head.

  “Grandad’s body was searched,” Rathe said. “Any idea what someone might have been looking for?”

  Steen shook his head again. “Grandad banked his money—Orlandi’s, in Point of Sighs. Unless someone believed his stories? Tyrseis, that would be cruel.”

  “Stories?” Eslingen asked.

  Steen looked at him. “Grandad liked to hang about the taverns and tell tales for drinks, about his life as a pirate and the like. There was always a lost treasure or three, and a mysterious island, and monsters.” He broke off, blinking hard.

  “Mermaids,” Rathe said, and Steen looked blankly at him. “A story he told me once, and I’ve never forgotten. He�
�ll be missed.” He shook himself. “But I don’t think that’s why he was killed. Old Steen had business with Caiazzo, we know that much, and that’s more likely to bring death in its wake.”

  Steen nodded slowly, his eyes on Eslingen. “And this business would be—?”

  “Caiazzo’s,” Eslingen answered, carefully, and after a moment, Steen nodded again.

  “I’ll have a word with him, then, soldier.”

  “He’d welcome it, I think,” Eslingen answered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rathe grimace.

  “And if it ends up having a bearing on these murders, I’d appreciate hearing it,” he said. “Or I’ll have to have a word with Hanse myself.”

  “And I’m sure that will please him, too,” Eslingen murmured.

  Rathe ignored him. “What about enemies? Anyone you can think of who’d want to kill your father?”

  “Not so many ashore,” Steen answered. “And not in Astreiant. He’s only been home a week or two ahead of me—we both sail under charter from Bastian Souers, to the Silklands and the southern isles.”

  “So your guess would be that it was business?” Rathe asked, and Steen nodded.

  “My first guess, anyway, Adjunct Point. But I don’t know what he was up to since he was home.”

  “We’ll be asking about that,” Rathe said.

  “Yeah.” Steen squared his shoulder, the little-captain snuggling against him. “The—bodies. They’ll be at the dead-house, then? How do I go about claiming them?”

  “You’ll need to prove you’re the next-of kin,” Rathe answered, “which shouldn’t be a problem—”

  He broke off at the knock at his door, tipped his head to one side. “I’m sorry, Adjunct Point,” the runner Lennar said, “but Old Steen’s wife is here to claim the body.”

  His eyes were wide at the very idea, and Eslingen blinked. Not many people of Old Steen’s status ever married; they might run a shop or some other business with the woman whose bed they shared, whose children they fathered, or perhaps make some more tenuous contract, some promise of maintenance in exchange for the children and the company, but they did not marry. Not chartered captains who gave half their take to the women who funded the venture, and paid their crew out of their own share.

  “My father’s not married,” Young Steen said.

  “She has his marriage lines, the chief says,” Lennar answered. “If you please, Adjunct Point?”

  “Let’s see what she has to say,” Rathe said, forestalling Young Steen’s indignant answer, and pointed him toward the door. He glanced back at Eslingen. “Come on, Philip, you don’t want to miss the show.”

  “Indeed not,” Eslingen answered, and trailed behind them down the stairs to the station’s main room.

  Chapter Two ~ The Summer-Sailor`s Wife

  Rathe led the way down the stairs, glad that Eslingen closed up at his shoulder, blocking Young Steen from any precipitate action. Monteia and Jiemen were standing beneath the station’s case-clock, Jiemen looking harried, Monteia with her pipe in her mouth and her hands on her hips, staring at the third woman. She wasn’t young herself, looked to be about the same age as Monteia, and as soberly dressed, bottle-green skirt and split-sleeved bodice that showed a glimpse of ivory linen. The neck was square but modest, made so by a fichu of inexpensive lace: not quite what he’d been expecting, and Rathe glanced over his shoulder at Young Steen.

  “Do you know her?”

  “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

  Eslingen’s eyebrows winged up at that, but he swallowed what was probably an inappropriate retort. Rathe gave him a look that he hoped conveyed the desire that Eslingen continue to behave decorously, and nodded to Monteia. “Chief?”

  Monteia removed her pipe from her mouth, pointed with it to the stranger. “This is Costanze van Duiren, wife to Old Steen.”

  “No, she’s not,” Young Steen blurted.

  “He never approved of the marriage,” van Duiren said. Her voice was sharply southriver, less cultured than her clothes. “Him being motherless and all.”

  “There never was any marriage,” Young Steen said. “In fact, I’d lay good money my father never even bedded you.”

  “Enough,” Monteia said. “Captain, Dame van Duiren has your father’s marriage lines.”

  “Forged, I don’t know,” Young Steen said. The little-captain, catching his mood, growled from the shelter of his arms.

  “Unusual for the wife to have her husband’s lines,” Rathe observed. “Usually it’s the man who wants the proof.”

  “He was at sea seven months out of twelve,” van Duiren answered. “I kept many of his papers for him.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rathe saw Eslingen’s head lift slightly. Whatever Caiazzo was after, then, there were papers involved. He put that thought aside for later. “I’d like to have a look at them, Chief?”

  Monteia gestured with her pipe again, and van Duiren pulled the folded sheet from the purse at her waist, handing it over with a quiet flourish. Rathe took it, his gaze flicking over the printed form, the names and dates written in the familiar clerical hand, recording the marriage of Costanze van Duiren and Steen Stinson. There was a second document as well, a contract of maintenance, van Duiren’s promise to support the potential father of her children should she conceive by him, with bonuses for a daughter, and the usual provisions for miscarriage and stillbirth. The ink had flowed smoothly, none of the faint shifts in color and thickness you saw on even competent forgeries, and all the stamps and seals looked genuine. He nodded and handed it back, and she folded it carefully away.

  “The original of the contract is on file at the Temple, of course,” she said. “I’ll have that sworn to if necessary.”

  “We’ll see,” Monteia said.

  “In any case,” van Duiren said, “there can’t be any serious argument that I’m not his next of kin. I am his wife, by all legal reckoning.”

  “You’re not his wife,” Young Steen said. “This is madness!”

  “What proof do you have that there wasn’t a marriage?” Monteia asked.

  “My father wouldn’t— I’ve never seen this woman before, never heard her name mentioned. Would my father marry and never tell his own son?”

  “That’s hardly proof,” van Duiren said. “Even if it were true.”

  Young Steen took a step forward, and Eslingen blocked him without seeming to have moved at all.

  “Dame van Duiren has a point,” Monteia said.

  “Ask his crew—ask his landlady,” Young Steen began, and stopped, shaking his head. “Ask anyone who knew him.”

  “You can call your witnesses,” Monteia said, and Young Steen shook his head again.

  “I don’t know who’s in town, I don’t even know where to start.”

  Rathe said, “What does the dog say?”

  Monteia cocked her head at him, and Rathe held out his hand for the little-captain. Steen gave him up warily, and Rathe gentled it into the corner of his arm. “The dog should know her, right, if she’s his wife.”

  “The dog didn’t,” van Duiren began, and stopped herself.

  “Didn’t what?” Monteia asked.

  “Didn’t like me,” van Duiren said, with dignity. That wasn’t what she’d intended to say, Rathe knew, but she’d saved herself from an outright lie.

  “Let’s see,” he said, and set the little-captain on the polished stone. The dog turned in a rapid circle, then ran from shoe to shoe, looking up as if hoping one of them would be Old Steen. It treated Monteia no differently from van Duiren, though it barked once at Eslingen, then retreated to the shelter of Young Steen’s ankles. The captain picked it up, glaring at Monteia.

  “What more do you need? He doesn’t know her. I doubt she even knows his name.”

  “Steen,” van Duiren said, and the little-captain cocked his head, ears swiveling.

  “Really?” Eslingen said, under his breath, and Rathe stepped back none too gently on his toe.

  “I
t’s an easy guess,” Young Steen said.

  Monteia shook her head. “Captain, if you can bring witnesses that your father was unmarried, I’d advise you to do so, and to pursue the matter in the courts. I don’t see that I have any choice but to turn Old Steen’s body over to Dame van Duiren. Subject, of course, to her paying the associated costs, as set out by the Chief Alchemist.”

  “But not Grandad,” Young Steen said, and Monteia shook her head again.

  “The claim passes from father to son, so there’s no question you’re his next-kinsman.”

  Rathe glanced quickly at van Duiren, but saw no change in her expression. Her business was entirely with Old Steen, then, which raised the odds that Grandad’s death was unintentional.

  “I’ll take that charge gladly,” Young Steen said. “And if she in any way defaults—I’ll stand the charges, Chief Point.”

  “Duly noted,” Monteia said. “Do I take it you mean to contest the marriage?”

  Young Steen nodded. “I do.”

  “Then it’s very likely the alchemists will hold his belongings until there’s an order from the court,” Monteia said.

  “You’re simply trying to drive up your fees,” van Duiren said. “No judge would place the claim of a motherless man above a lawful wife.”

  “Lawful?” Young Steen’s voice rose, and out of the corner of his eye, Rathe saw Eslingen pluck at his sleeve. The captain subsided slightly, the dog growling for him, a rising rumble of sound.

  “That’s for the court to decide,” Monteia repeated. “Dame, I’ll need one of the points to copy down the details of your papers.”

  And that, Rathe knew, was his cue to get Young Steen out of the station so there wouldn’t be any more bloodshed in the streets. He turned toward him, but Eslingen already had a hand on Young Steen’s elbow, and was steering him toward the door. Eslingen looked over his shoulder as though Rathe had called him, and winked. Trust me, he mouthed, and then they were gone. Rathe stood for a moment staring after them. He did trust Eslingen, that was the problem, even though he knew it probably wasn’t safe. If only he hadn’t found Eslingen the place in Caiazzo’s household—but Eslingen had lost his previous post partly because of Rathe, and it had all seemed like a good idea at the time. And Eslingen had been a good companion during the hunt for the stolen children, always ready with a clever answer or an equally canny blow. And after—after it had been all too easy to fall into bed with him, and into a deepening friendship.