Albe looked mutinous at that, but Naimi kicked her, not gently.
“You were asking about Colyer’s story. Albe knows about it.”
The girl looked from one to the other, her expression wary, and Rathe gave a careful smile. “Anything you can tell us would be appreciated.”
“I swore I wouldn’t say.” Albe looked at her shoes.
“You swore you wouldn’t tell anyone who hasn’t to do with the dogs,” Naimi said. “Lieutenant vaan Esling owns Sunflower, and Nico’s his leman, so that’s all right.”
Eslingen bit back a comment—it didn’t seem quite so obvious to him—but Albe sighed. “I did promise.”
“We already know the basics, I think,” Rathe said, and Eslingen nodded.
“There’s an alley behind Mama Moon’s,” he said. “On the side away from the bower?”
He waited, and Albe nodded reluctantly.
“And if you walk there under the right stars, the walls weep silver,” he went on. “That’s what Colyer said.”
“Yes.”
“Have you done it?” Eslingen asked, and she nodded again.
“Yes.”
“Did you find silver?”
“Yes.”
“How much—” Eslingen began, but Rathe shook his head fractionally, and Eslingen hastily changed the question. “Was it between the timbers?”
“And in the chimney-breast,” Albe said. “It’s mine, finder’s rights.”
Rathe nodded, and Eslingen said, “If Nico says so, then there’s no argument.”
She looked dubious at that, and Naimi pushed her. “Don’t be stupid.”
“What are the right stars?” Eslingen asked hastily, and Albe shrugged.
“Don’t know. The boy I got it from, he just gave me an almanac, like.”
Naimi pushed her again, and Albe reached into her skirts, came out with a bedraggled slip of paper. She set it reluctantly on the table, and Rathe took it, frowning.
“May I copy it?”
“You’ll give it back?”
“Of course he will,” Naimi said, scowling, and Albe shrugged again.
“How’d I know that?”
Rathe had his tablets out, was hastily scribbling the dates into the soft wax. Eslingen looked back at the apprentice.
“Does it work every time?”
“No.”
Eslingen waited, smiling, and Albe pushed a strand of hair back out of her face.
“I went three times, three days—I marked them, there—but I only found silver once. I expect someone was there before me.”
Or the days weren’t right, Eslingen thought, but decided that was better left unsaid. Rathe closed his tablets and slid the slip of paper back across the table. Albe snatched it, stowing it back under her skirts in a single movement.
“Thank you,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded in agreement. “Both of you.”
“Better you than anyone else,” Naimi answered. “We can trust you.” She poked Albe again, and the girl rose reluctantly to her feet. “Come on, we’ve got to get back to the kennel.”
She turned away, but Albe looked over her shoulder. “You won’t take it all, will you? It’s—the tips have been short this spring.”
“I don’t plan to take any,” Rathe said, but Eslingen doubted she believed him. He watched them walk away, then turned back to Rathe.
“Well? Can you deduce the stars from that?”
“I’m no astrologer,” Rathe said. “Though I’m sure someone can. But I think there’s a simpler answer.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” Rathe gave a crooked smile. “Tonight’s one of the nights. I think we should take a look ourselves.”
Rathe hunched over the little table in the corner of the riverside bar, keeping his face carefully averted from the door. Eslingen waited opposite him, almost unrecognizable in an unfashionable black coat buttoned high to hide his pale linen, a dark broad-brimmed hat pulled low on his forehead. It was late, nearly closing time, and for a moment Rathe envied the other man his ability to sleep at will. As soon as they had returned to their lodgings, Eslingen had stretched out on the bed and been almost instantly asleep: a handy talent, Rathe thought, but one he didn’t share. He’d managed a brief nap, but felt almost worse for it.
The nearest clock struck the quarter hour, echoed a moment later by the unmistakable chime of the University’s Great Clock, carried on a cross-river breeze, and Eslingen lifted his head.
“They’ll be closing soon.”
Rathe nodded. “The Fair should have quieted down by now. We can go.”
Eslingen beckoned to the nearest waiter, handed him a few demmings to pay their shot, then rose easily to his feet. Rathe copied him, and they let themselves out into the night.
The winter-sun had set more than an hour ago, and it was full dark. The air smelled of damp, soft and heavy, holding the smells of tar and spice in the way that promised fog before morning. Magelights glimmered at odd intervals, marking a house either better watched than its neighbors or pretending to be, and Rathe kept a wary eye on the alleys. This part of Fairs’ Point was mostly shops, with only a few apprentices sleeping in the back rooms to guard their mistresses’ wares, and he was glad of both knife and truncheon hanging beneath the skirts of his own shapeless coat. Eslingen had the dark lantern, shuttered until they needed it, an expensive spark of magelight at its heart.
The New Fair was relatively quiet, the cookshops and taverns all closed, only a few lights showing between the cracks of the shutters. The kennels were better lit, dim magelights glowing in the half-open doors and spilling into the space between the buildings; the occasional shadow betrayed the presence of a boxholder or apprentice. The dogs were mostly quiet, and Rathe gave the kennels a wide berth, not wanting to rouse them. Eslingen followed him like a shadow.
They stopped at the edge of Mama Moon’s bower to take stock, keeping to the darkness where two shadows overlapped. From there, Rathe could see the mouth of the alley where the coins had been found, and he considered it for a long moment before he turned to survey the open space beyond the bower. Surely Fairs’ Point had patrols out—surely the trainers would have paid for extra patrols—but at the moment there was no sign of anyone moving in the dappled dark. The air was still and cool, smelling strongly of dogs and spice, and the first threads of fog were creeping across the damp ground.
“Wait,” Eslingen said, softly, and caught his arm. “Look there.”
He nodded toward the entrance of the alley. Rathe looked back, and swallowed a curse. Someone was moving in the dark—a man, most likely a boxholder, pausing for a moment before vanishing into the alley.
“Of course we’re not the only ones with the almanac,” Eslingen murmured.
“I thought they’d be abed by now,” Rathe answered.
“What now?”
“We wait.” Either the man would return the way he’d come, or he’d go straight through. Straight through would bring him out closer to the kennels, and the chance of raising the dogs, but on balance Rathe thought that was the better choice.
“What if he finds the coin?”
“We should be able to see where he dug it out,” Rathe answered.
“Yes, but—” Eslingen shook his head. “I know we’re not looking for the silver, but a mark on the wall isn’t exactly proof of anything.”
“I know.” Rathe glanced up, wishing they were further past the new moon. “But it’s a start.”
Eslingen was silent. They stood for a while longer, Rathe tilting his head to listen, but there was nothing to hear. He had to be gone, Rathe thought. They’d given him time to make his way down the alley, even stopping to search; surely he’d seen whatever there was to be seen, and moved on. He looked back at Eslingen.
“Let’s go.”
By silent agreement, they crossed the open space as though they belonged there, just two late-homing travelers. There was no movement from the shadows, no sound beyond a distant clatter, wood on wood, t
he yelp of a dog too distant to rouse the kennels. Rathe took a breath and slipped into the alley’s mouth, pausing just inside to allow Eslingen to open the dark lantern. The Leaguer fiddled with it for a moment, adjusting shutter and lenses, and produced a neat beam of light that he directed at their feet.
The alley was empty, empty and ordinary, the wall of Mama Moon’s to their right, plaster and timber and then the shallow bulge of the brick chimney breast. To the other side was a caravaners’ storehouse, currently rented out as housing, but there were no windows to break the timber walls. There was a smell of stale urine, no surprise, and rotting vegetables. Eslingen lifted the lantern, letting the light play along the tavern’s wall.
“Did they say it was only Mama Moon’s wall, or both of them?” he asked.
“They didn’t say,” Rathe answered. The plaster looked ordinary, yellowed and cracked in the magelight; the timbers were equally battered, though some of the marks… “Put the light here.”
Eslingen did as he was asked, and Rathe examined the gouge in the tarred wood. “Someone’s been digging here.”
“Looks like it. Tonight, do you think?”
“I can’t tell.” Rathe shook his head. “Come on.”
They worked their way slowly down the alley, the fog thickening around their ankles. Rathe found half a dozen more marks where it looked as though something had been dug out of wood or plaster, but there was no sign of any silver. The darkness felt heavy, and he couldn’t help glancing back toward the alley’s mouth, as though something might be waiting there.
There was nothing, of course, not even a patrol, and he shook his head. Surely Claes had people walking the streets, keeping an eye out for trouble, though the gods knew it would be nearly impossible to steal a dog. But there were plenty of other things that could be taken, the silver thefts had made that clear.
“Nico.”
Rathe lengthened his stride to catch up, and saw Eslingen adjust the lantern, widening the shutter just a fraction. “Something?”
“Sorry.” Eslingen shook his head. “Just what looks like a new mark.”
Rathe nodded in agreement. There was a gouge in the mortar between two bricks, a little longer than a thumb-joint, and when he ran a finger over it, the mortar crumbed readily. “Feels new,” he agreed, and glanced toward the alley’s mouth again.
There was a soft sound, almost like a sigh, and then a gentle pop. Eslignen shuttered the lantern instantly, and they stood frozen, but the sound was not repeated. After a moment, Eslingen carefully reopened the lantern, and let the beam play over the wall again. Rathe heard his breath catch.
“Nico.”
“Yeah?”
Eslingen lifted the lantern, and Rathe saw it, too, the bright flash of magelight on coin silver.
“That—was that there before?”
“I don’t know,” Eslingen answered. “I hadn’t looked this far along.”
Rathe drew his knife, began prying at the coin. It was sunk almost all the way into the wood of the beam next to the chimney, a seilling buried almost to its fluted edge. Or maybe it was coming out of the wood? There was no way to tell. Had the sound been its arrival, either breaking the surface of the beam or slamming into it? Or had it been something else entirely, and the coin had been there all along? He got the knifepoint under it at last, and levered it free. It looked ordinary enough, a plain city seilling, horsehead on one side, the city’s mint-mark on the other, and he held it out to Eslingen. “See anything odd?”
Eslingen held it in the lantern’s narrow beam, turning it over thoughtfully. “No—”
There was another sigh, this one just at the edge of hearing, a breath of air that barely disturbed the creeping tendrils of fog. Rathe tensed, listening, and thought the following pop came from behind him, toward the alley’s mouth.
“Philip.”
“I heard.” Eslingen pocketed the seilling and turned the lantern toward the sound, the beam slicing for a moment across bare dirt.
“Careful.”
“Sorry.” Eslingen fiddled with the shutter again, eclipsing most of the light, and began searching along the wall. “Ah. Here.”
Rathe came to join him, saw without surprised that two more bits of silver protruded from the mortar that edged the chimney. One was another seilling, and he pried it loose. The other was smaller, looked more like a quarter-pillar, just a corner showing above the crumbling mortar. He tried to grasp it, got thumb and forefinger on it on the second try, and wiggled gently. The coin gave a little, but then stuck fast. He drew his knife again, and Eslingen stiffened.
“Nico.”
Rathe glanced over his shoulder, and swore under his breath. A figure was moving briskly across the open ground, lantern in hand: one of Claes’s patrols, no doubt, just when she wasn’t wanted. “Move.”
Eslingen snapped the shutter closed, and they retreated further into the alley’s shadow. Eslingen would have kept going, but Rathe pulled him into the dubious shelter of the chimney breast.
“I want that coin.”
“Let’s not be greedy—” Eslingen bit off the rest of his words as the pointsman came closer, lantern spilling a great fan of light before him, obviously heading for the alley.
Rathe cursed again. Of course Claes’s people had heard the same stories, and of course they’d managed to get a copy of Albe’s almanac, or some equivalent: most of them were venal, not stupid. The chimney would conceal them from a casual glance from the alley’s mouth, but not from a closer look. They needed a distraction. He glanced at the ground, found nothing but dirt and crushed vegetables, reached into his purse to come up with a couple of demmings. “Ready,” he said, and saw Eslingen nod.
He flung the demmings with all his strength toward the alley’s mouth, heard one strike the dirt and the other hit something more substantial, a solid clink of metal on metal. The pointsman turned instinctively, the lantern tilting away, and Rathe pushed Eslingen toward the alley’s exit. Eslingen darted ahead, fast and silent, and Rathe followed, ducking out into the space between silent kennels.
“Hey! Who’s there?”
“That way,” Rathe said, pointing to the wider opening between the closest kennel and the back of what he thought he recognized as the Yellow Dog, but Eslingen ignored him, fumbling for a moment in the pocket of his coat.
“No, here.” He caught Rathe’s sleeve with his free hand, dragged him into the space beside the kennel, pressing something through the gap in the first set of shutters as they went. A dog barked, and the rest of the kennel took up the cry, answered instantly by the dogs in the buildings to either side.
Rathe flinched, but kept running, following Eslingen down the next short alley and out into the narrow streets that ran beside the Fair. Eslingen pulled himself to a stop, looking over his shoulder with a fair assumption of startled curiosity, and Rathe caught a whiff of liver.
“You put a biscuit through the window.”
“It got their attention, didn’t it?” Eslingen opened his lantern all the way, an innocent man heading home late at night. “Let’s not hang about.”
“You’ve got your coin?” Rathe couldn’t help looking over his shoulder, but there was no sign of the other pointsman. Probably caught up with the dogs and their angry boxholders, he thought, and heaved a sigh of relief.
“Yes.”
“Let’s go, then.”
Chapter Nine
The silver coins lay in a spot of sunlight in the middle of the deadhouse table, the horsehead stamp on the faces blurred with use. Utterly ordinary, Eslingen thought, as common as the slates underfoot or the vine putting out new leaves just outside the low window. Not something you’d expect to find embedded in the wall of a Fairs’ Point tavern. He looked at Rathe, who gave a tiny shrug, and looked in turn at Fanier and b’Estorr, who had their heads together at the other empty table. After a moment, the necromancer spread his hands and turned back to the coin, while Fanier returned his glasses to his nose and for good measure collected a
thick brass-rimmed glass, which he held over the coin.
“Nothing,” he said, after a moment, and set the glass down carefully out of the sun.
Outside in the hall, the clock struck eleven, and Eslingen grimaced. They’d been at it for two hours, ever since Rathe sent a runner to fetch b’Estorr from the University, and for that entire two hours the coin had lain there unmoving, unaffected, looking more and more ordinary with each pass of hand or tool, each pinch or drop of chemical, each drift of smoke or ash.
“I’m damned if I can think of anything else to test for,” b’Estorr said.
Fanier took of his glasses, lodged them in his mane of gray hair, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “No sign of alchemical change, no residue of magistical power, no signs of intent, no traces of any working I can think of, including Chadroni will-o-ways—”
“Which I told you wouldn’t work on silver,” b’Estorr murmured. He’d spent a fraught few years in the Chadroni court, the first and last necromancer employed there, Eslingen remembered. Since the Chadroni throne tended to change hands often and with violence, he couldn’t say he was surprised.
“—In fact, nothing at all.” Fanier looked at Rathe. “Sorry, Nico. I’ve got nothing.”
“There has to be something,” Rathe said. “Coins don’t just sprout out of walls.”
“Or get stuck in them,” Eslingen said, in spite of himself.
Rathe glanced at him. “You think the coins were driven in, not poking out?”
“I don’t know—couldn’t tell,” Eslingen answered. “I figure we can’t rule it out.”
“Nor we can’t,” Rathe agreed. “Either way, though, it’s not a natural process.”
“And yet,” b’Estorr said. “We’re not finding anything.”
“But you’d find if there were natural changes, right?” Rathe said, to Fanier, who nodded.
“Yeah. And I’m not seeing anything like that, either. It’s just sitting there. It’s not even unnaturally shiny.”
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