Point of Knives

by Melissa Scott

  And this was definitely not the moment to be thinking about that. Old Steen’s belongings were still in a bundle in his workroom: better to see what was there, and copy what he could, before van Duiren pressed her claim.

  Rathe poured himself another cup of the cooling tea, the early morning already beginning to wear on him, and closed the workroom door before he turned to the packet he’d been given at the dead-house. As Castera had said, it was clear that Old Steen hadn’t been robbed: the untied bundle held the dead man’s purse, still plump and clinking with coin, and his keys. Rathe set them aside for the moment, sorted quickly through the rest of the objects. It was the usual detritus of a working man’s pockets, tinder-box, tobacco pouch and pipe—a nice one, polished briar inlaid with silver—a set of lead dice, a gnawed-on stylus, a quarter of a broadsheet prophecy and a few more scraps of paper twisted into spills, a silver storm-horse charm and a couple of thick hard-baked biscuits stamped with a running dog. Treats for the little-captain, Rathe knew, and set them aside. He tipped his head to one side, considering what was left. It was all very ordinary, though he wondered if the stylus meant that Old Steen was in the habit of carrying a set of wax tablets. There were none among the effects. He made a note to ask, and picked up the tobacco pouch. There was something hard in it, only partly masked by the loose herb, and he undid the strings, opening the pouch to its widest extent. Nestled among the shreds of tobacco was a single iron key the size of his thumb.

  Rathe lifted his eyebrows—not the usual place to keep a key, certainly—and gently shook off the last of the oily strands. It looked ordinary enough, browned iron with plain-cut wards—castle-cut, he amended, looking at it more closely, and that meant a better lock than average. He would bet this was part of what Old Steen had been killed for.

  He reached into the pocket of his own coat, brought out the wax tablets he always carried. They were empty, the wax planed smooth for the day, and he pressed the key carefully into the left-hand side, taking an impression of each face. In the back of his mind, he could hear Eslingen’s voice, coolly amused—you have unsuspected talents, Adjunct Point—but put the thought aside. It was just as well to be able to make a copy of the keys, in case someone made Monteia give them up.

  There was a knock at the door then, and he knotted the tobacco pouch closed, flipping the wrapping hastily over the various objects. “Yeah?”

  Monteia pushed the door open, and Rathe relaxed slightly. “Hello, Chief.”

  “I thought you might have the effects,” she said, and seated herself on the visitor’s stool. “Van Duiren’s gone to the dead-house, she’ll be back here inside the hour, wanting them.”

  “Yeah,” Rathe said again, and met her eyes without apology. “I needed time to look things over.” He paused. “I thought you said the alchemists would keep them.”

  “The marriage lines look valid, and Young Steen hasn’t yet filed a claim,” Monteia said. “I doubt they’ll argue.” She paused. “What have you got?”

  “Not much,” Rathe answered. He spilled out the purse as he spoke, a handful of coins, mostly cooper demmings with a few rounds of silver among them, began counting as he spoke. “Pipe fittings, dice, dog-biscuit, his money and his keys.”

  “Definitely not robbed,” Monteia said. “You said Grandad was searched?”

  Rathe nodded. “There was nothing in his pockets, and purse and cap were missing. Maybe the killer thought Old Steen had given whatever it was she’s looking for to Grandad? I don’t know.” He looked down at the note from the dead-house. “All told, he had two demmings less a pillar here, so, yeah, we can say he wasn’t searched. That’s too much money to leave behind. Though he’s got a stylus here and no tablets, so I’ll need to ask around about that.”

  “Common enough to have a stylus in the kit,” Monteia said. “I use mine to clean my pipe.” She reached across the desk, picked up the battered slip of bone to display the darkened tip. “Looks like Old Steen did the same.”

  Rathe nodded. “That makes sense. Thanks, Chief.”

  “Almost a pillar,” Monteia said. “Two weeks keeping, that is, for most of us. Do we know where he lodged?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’d like to know,” she said. “And before van Duiren has a chance to muddy the waters.”

  “You don’t seriously think she married him, do you?” Rathe asked.

  Monteia shook her head. “If she did, then I’m a Regent. And you don’t see me sitting in All-Guilds, do you?”

  “Then you wouldn’t have any objection if I took an impression of his keys?” Rathe asked.

  Monteia hesitated. “We’ve no right,” she said at last. “And she’s the sort to claim the letter of the law.”

  “It’s murder,” Rathe said, without much hope, and Monteia shook her head.

  “I can’t say yes to it. I’m sorry, Nico.”

  But she wasn’t saying no, either. Rathe nodded in perfect understanding, and Monteia pushed herself to her feet.

  “When you’re done, I’ll put these in the station strongbox. And one thing more.”

  Rathe gave her a wary look.

  “I know you’re fond of Eslingen, but he’s Caiazzo’s man. You can’t trust him in this business.”

  “He did us—the points and the city—good service this summer,” Rathe said.

  “That was to save his own skin and Caiazzo’s,” Monteia said.

  “I put him into Caiazzo’s service, remember,” Rathe said.

  “So you did. And you’d better learn to live with it.” She paused. “Don’t force me to make it an order, Nico.”

  “I’ll do my best, Chief,” Rathe said, and the door closed behind her.

  He kept a block of beeswax in his cabinet for just this purpose, and set it to warm in the sun while he looked over the ring of keys. Monteia was wrong about Eslingen, he was sure of that, though he couldn’t have said precisely why. Or, rather, he could say it, could quote all the times during the search for the children that Eslingen had chosen their interests over Caiazzo’s, the way he’d risked arrest and injury and finally his life, but he knew that he would only sound besotted. And I’m not, he thought. Not besotted. Fond of him, friendly with him—gods, it was easy to slip into the habit of the summer, too easy to treat him as comrade and friend—and if he was honest with himself, yes, he could become besotted. Could even— He refused to utter the betraying verb, even in his own mind. Wanted him still, yes, he’d admit that much because half the station felt the same way: Eslingen was an extraordinarily handsome man, with his pale skin and black hair and his vivid blue eyes. Liked him, too, and that was the heart of the trouble. No matter how much he liked and trusted Eslingen, he couldn’t afford to give Caiazzo that much of an advantage. Monteia was right, he’d have to learn to live with it.

  They were in the station courtyard before Young Steen jerked his arm free of Eslingen’s hand, and rounded on him with a glare.

  “Not here,” Eslingen said, and the logic of that was enough to carry them through the station’s gate and out into the street.

  “And who are you—”

  “And not here, either,” Eslingen said, “not unless you want everyone in Point of Hopes to know your affairs.”

  Steen scowled, but the point was unarguable. “Where, then? Because you and I have things to talk about, soldier.”

  “Lieutenant,” Eslingen said, with a smile he didn’t feel. He didn’t really feel like claiming rank, either, but he suspected it was the best way to get Young Steen to follow quietly. “The Hare and Hawker?”

  It was a tavern not far away, one that catered to travelers and therefore asked no questions. “I don’t have time for this,” Steen muttered, but nodded.

  Eslingen steered them to a table in the corner, ordered tea and a cheese tart. Steen started to wave the potboy away, then visibly thought better of it and called for sausage and small beer.

  “And an explanation,” he added, looking at Eslingen. “What exactly was your busines
s with Dad, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m Caiazzo’s knife,” Eslingen said. It was the catchall Astreianter term for bodyguard, hired thug, or blade for hire. “He had business with your father, and sent me to handle it.”

  “What kind of business?” Steen’s glare sharpened again.

  “Not what you’re thinking,” Eslingen answered. “Old Steen had a cargo he wanted to dispose of discreetly—my impression was it hadn’t paid the Queen’s taxes, though it wasn’t my place to know any details—and Caiazzo wanted to buy. I was to fetch a sample of the goods in exchange for a crown in silver.”

  Young Steen swore under his breath. “So that’s—did Caiazzo tell you what the cargo was, Lieutenant?”

  Eslingen shook his head. “He said I didn’t need to know.”

  “He would.” Young Steen showed teeth in a distinctly feral smile. “Dad wasn’t here this summer, he was all the way south past the Outer Isles. He went to fetch his takings from three years past—gold, Lieutenant, coin of three realms, taken off the—wreck—of a Silklands hoy. A sea-chest full of gold, and none to claim it.”

  And doubtless Old Steen had been responsible for that wreck, Eslingen thought. He said, “The Queen takes her tithe of all gold, coin, nugget, ingot, or flakes and dust. It’s the royal metal, there’s a magistical link to her rule that has to be propitiated. Not to mention she’s sensitive about it after this past summer.” A crazed magist had stolen the city’s children to mine aurichalcum, queen’s-gold, that he intended to use to influence the succession and become the power behind Astreiant’s throne: the queen and her agents were still keeping a very close eye on the banks and traders.

  “Yeah. But Dad didn’t know,” Steen said. “If he had, he’d have left it another season.”

  And Caiazzo still needed gold, Eslingen thought, the pieces slotting into place at last. He’d lost his ready coin in the summer chaos, still had caravans to fund and less-legal businesses to support, and the last, in particular, dealt in cash, not letters of credit. Of course Caiazzo had jumped at the chance to change silver for gold, and of course Old Steen had been glad to take legal coin for untaxed, unworkable gold that he couldn’t easily explain….

  “And now that miserable bitch is going to claim Dad’s goods,” Young Steen said. “The gold along with it.”

  “Rathe doesn’t believe her,” Eslingen said. “He’ll delay as long as possible. Which means you should call up those witnesses you spoke of—his crew, his friends, anyone who can speak to the matter—and haul them down to the station or get a sworn statement or both. That’ll slow things down, at the very least.”

  “Why should the pointsman care?” Steen tossed down the last of his beer.

  “Because it’s justice,” Eslingen said, and shrugged. “His stars run that way, I suppose, but—that’s how he is. He’s the man who saved the children, and he did it because someone had to.”

  “And I know you, now, too,” Young Steen said, slowly. “You worked with him—you’re the other half of that, Lieutenant.”

  “I helped,” Eslingen said. “But it was Nico—Rathe—who did most of it.”

  “I’ll call up my witnesses,” Young Steen said. “And would you take a word to Caiazzo?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell him that if I can claim my father’s goods, I’d be happy to make the same bargain with him that Dad did.” Young Steen pushed himself to his feet, and Eslingen copied him, tossing a handful of demmings on the tabletop to cover the cost of the meal. Of course Young Steen would say that; it was the best way to get Caiazzo to back his claim. But it was also obvious that van Duiren was a liar—and probably after the gold herself, Eslingen thought.

  “I’ll tell him that,” he said, and made his way through the tables to the door.

  He caught a low-flyer back to Customs Point, paid it off at the bottom of the street where Caiazzo had his house, and went in by the side door, hoping to steal a moment to pull his thoughts together before he had to take his news to Caiazzo. Unfortunately, his wish was not granted. Aicelin Denizard, Caiazzo’s magist and left hand, was crossing the hall as the door opened, and stopped in her tracks.

  “Eslingen! You were looked for hours ago.”

  “I know,” Eslingen answered. “Is himself about?”

  “Above in his workroom, and contemplating sending runners to find you,” Denizard answered. “I’ll send him word you’re here.”

  “Come up with me,” Eslingen said. “You’ll want to hear as well.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at that, but turned, the heavy grey silk of her magist’s robe rustling against her fashionable ox-blood gown, and led the way up the central stairs.

  Caiazzo’s workroom was at the end of the gallery, with long windows like the stern of a ship overlooking the garden behind the house. His counter ran along the wall beneath it, piled with papers and ledgers and an abacus, and Caiazzo himself sat on a high stool near its center, while his clerk sat at a low table, diligently making notes. He broke off as the door opened, and the clerk looked up, pen poised.

  “All right, Biblis, that’ll be all for now,” Caiazzo said. “Philip, I hope you have a good explanation for where you’ve been.”

  The clerk stoppered her inkwell and hurried out, Denizard closing the door firmly behind her. Eslingen took a breath. “I have an explanation,” he said, “but I wouldn’t call it good.”

  “Go on.”

  “Old Steen’s dead,” Eslingen said bluntly. “And his aged father murdered, too.” He ran through the events of the previous night and their aftermath, finishing with Young Steen’s offer. Caiazzo stared at him for a long moment, and Eslingen fought back the temptation to elaborate. That was one of Caiazzo’s favorite tricks, luring you into saying more than you’d meant, and he refused to fall victim.

  “So you’ve been at Point of Hopes all this time,” Caiazzo said at last.

  “Yes.”

  “What does Rathe say about the woman?”

  “He doesn’t believe she’s his wife,” Eslingen answered. “I don’t think the Chief Point does, either, but the marriage lines look good.”

  “Oh, Bonfortune.” Caiazzo slanted a reproachful glance at the altar hanging on the side wall, where a bright bundle of autumn flowers lay beneath the feet of the merchant-venturers’ god, then slid from his stool. Standing, he was smaller than one might expect, a neat dark man, unobtrusively well dressed, with eyes that looked almost black in the morning light. Only the small scar at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he was more dangerous than he seemed. “Aice, I’ll want my advocates on this straightaway. Have Lunele place a claim against the estate, that should tie things up for a bit.”

  Denizard nodded. “Do we have a claim?”

  “Does it matter? She can find one, I’m sure.” Caiazzo didn’t wait for her answer, but reached for a pen and a clean sheet of paper. “As for you, Philip…. This is a note for the chief at Point of Hopes, what’s her name—”

  “Monteia,” Eslingen said.

  “Right, Monteia, stating that I’m making a claim, and that she’ll be in receipt of a proper writ within the day.” Caiazzo wrote busily for a few moments, the pen loud in the silence, then dusted the sheet with sand to dry the ink. “But your main business—I know you’re still friends with Nicolas Rathe, and I’m pleased that you’ve not made it an issue for me. And now I’m sending you to help him in any way you can. And make sure I get the gold I’ve contracted for.”

  Eslingen opened his mouth, and closed it again, knowing that protest was futile. He knew exactly what Caiazzo meant by “helping,” and he’d be damned before he’d cheat Rathe that way—but to say it outright was to lose his place, with winter coming on and no money saved to tide him over until he found other work. Not that there was much demand for soldiers in Astreiant in the first place, and that brought him back to the dilemma that had kept him here since midsummer.

  “Very well,” he said. “And what about my usual duties?”

  Caiazzo s
miled. “I took care of myself long enough, Philip. And Aice can mind the rest.”

  The magist looked both fond and exasperated at that, but said nothing. Caiazzo folded the note and handed it to Eslingen. “I’m sure Rathe will be glad of your help,” he said, with a twist of a smile that wasn’t quite a smirk. “But mostly—get the gold.”

  “Yes, sir,” Eslingen said, and turned away.

  As Monteia had predicted, van Duiren returned within the hour to demand Old Steen’s effects. Rathe made himself scarce while the Chief Point handed them over, and Lennar, coming to say the coast was clear, reported that the woman had been in a rare temper, though at least she’d had the sense not to turn it on Monteia.

  “Because the Chief was a hair’s breadth from telling her to get a judge’s ruling on the matter,” Lennar said. “And that would have spoiled her game.”

  Rathe nodded, and checked as he saw the figure ahead of him in the station’s main room. For a craven instant, he thought about walking away before he got himself in any deeper, but Eslingen was already up to his neck in the matter. There would be no avoiding him, no matter what Monteia said, and he couldn’t decide if that thought was pleasant or not.

  “Hello, Philip,” he said. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  Eslingen looked over his shoulder with a wry smile. “Caiazzo has a claim to make, though I gather we’re too late to have the effects impounded.”

  “Afraid so,” Rathe answered. “Not that there was much to consider. As you saw.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” Eslingen answered, in the dulcet tones that always made Rathe want to snicker. “Lunele—his advocate—is closeted with your Chief, and I imagine she’s making that very point.”