“Chief?”
Trijn was still at her worktable where she’d been when he left, though the piles had changed shape and there were dishes stacked to one side, the remains of a meal from someone’s tavern. “If you’re looking for me to let you loose on Fairs’ Point’s business, the answer is no.”
Rathe shook his head. “Just wanted to know what you thought was the priority in the mess you left me.”
Trijn gave an unwilling smile. “Our business is the printers. Mathiee Gasquine was here this morning complaining that someone’s pirated a copy of their latest play, and she wants that stopped.”
“Demars, for a demming,” Rathe said, and the chief point nodded.
“I don’t doubt it. See what you can do.” She paused. “Any progress on this other mess? Voillemin’s useless.”
“Nothing solid,” Rathe answered. “Useful hints, maybe, but nothing to call a point on.”
“If you get something that’ll bear a point, I’ll back you,” Trijn said.
That was not entirely unexpected, but Rathe felt a weight ease from his mind. He would need Trijn’s support to bring this to the Surintendant of Points, because with Claes out of commission, no one of lesser stature would listen to him. “Thanks, Chief,” he said, and headed out in pursuit of illegal play scripts.
As he’d expected, the other printers were quick to deny involvement, and to point their fingers at Anfelis Demars. When he tracked her to her latest lodgings, on a narrow alley behind the Bells, she didn’t bother to deny it, just shook her head as she slowly jogged her fussing baby from one side to the next.
“Call the point, Rathe, I can’t pay the fines.”
She was looking worn, Rathe thought, and glanced around the narrow room. It seemed empty, for all that it was small, and he frowned. “Where’s your man? What’s his name, Kaas?”
“Hired on a caravan.”
“It’s early for that,” Rathe said. Only the most daring merchants-venturer left Astreiant before they could confirm that the Maar was fordable and the snows had left the land-bridge that led to the Silklands, but if they beat the odds, the profits were correspondingly high.
Demars shrugged one shoulder, still bouncing the baby. “The pay was good. And he was offered a share in the profits. It seemed worth the chance. Of course, that was before the damned Regents brought in the new rule.”
Rathe frowned again, then put the pieces together. Demars never wrote a betting book herself, but her sister Ramanie did, and if they’d been counting on that money to keep them until Demars’s man could send money home—it was no wonder she’d moved out of her nicer rooms above the printshop and sold off half her furniture. “Ramanie having trouble this year, then?”
“She can’t afford the bond,” Demars said. “And she didn’t want to work without it. No more can I, and then the baby was sick, and—like I said, you might as well call the point, because I can’t afford a fine.”
“I have to write you up,” Rathe said, after a moment. “It’s up to Gasquine to press the matter.”
Demars’s mouth tightened. “Be damned if I’ll beg—”
“You stole her play,” Rathe pointed out. “It’s up to you, of course, but you did make her look foolish.”
The baby was quiet now, and Demars set her gently into the cradle, set it rocking as the baby gave a sleepy mutter. It was the nicest piece of furniture in the room, the canopy above the baby’s head carved with a tiny hare drowsing beneath a rose: born in the first week of Lepidas, then, when sun was in those signs. “I’ve not made so many copies that I couldn’t burn them,” Demars said grudgingly. “If she decided not to press.”
“I’ll carry that word,” Rathe said. “In the meantime—you’re on notice to appear at the Seideian court, unless you’re relieved of the obligation before then.”
“Understood.”
Rathe paused in the doorway, wanting to give her advice—don’t steal plays, don’t print outside the law, at least not this season—but none of it would solve her real problem, which was that her man was too brave, and her sister a coward. That was nothing she could hear, not from him. “I’ll talk to Trijn,” he said, and started back to Point of Dreams.
To his relief, Falasca agreed to be the go-between with Gasquine, though he suspected it was more in aid of a long-standing flirtation with one of the actors than from any desire to help him. He stuck his head in Trijn’s workroom to let her know what he’d done, and she looked up from yet another circular.
“Rathe. Come in and shut the door.”
Rathe did as he was told, and Trijn leaned back in her chair, regarding him with eyes narrowed behind a veil of smoke from her pipe. “What’s all this about the Quentiers targeting the races?”
“Astree’s—he’s not put that in writing, has he?”
Trijn shoved the circular toward him, and Rathe relaxed as he read the details. Voillemin was complaining about the unusual number of pickpockets and stall thieves, and pointed out that there were known nests of pickpockets in various parts of the city, but he hadn’t named the Quentiers at all, or accused Besetje of being their accomplice.
“Sorry, chief,” he said, and handed the circular back. “He’s said some things about Besetje—the Quentier cousin I stood patron to—that could cause her some serious harm. I’m relieved it’s not in the official writing.”
“Slander,” Trijn suggested, wearily.
“She’s an assistant dog trainer who happens to be a Quentier,” Rathe answered. “Even if she had the money, she certainly doesn’t have the standing.”
He paused, knowing he wasn’t saying anything Trijn didn’t already know, and she nodded. “Oh, I know. But a woman can hope. Anyway, that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you. You said there was something odd going on with Mama’s Moon’s, right?”
“A bit, yes.” Rathe hoped she wasn’t going to ask him to explain.
“Apparently that’s where Beier was living before he went missing. He had the rooms on the top floor, and the use of the roof for his observations.”
“Was it, now?” Rathe echoed. Something Beier did—something he did wrong? Something that went wrong, or was it something someone deliberately did to him? “Chief, I need to have someone look at those rooms. Can you arrange it for me?”
“Eslingen?”
“b’Estorr, primarily, but, yes, I’d like to send Philip with him.”
Trijn stared at him for a long moment. “Do I want to know what you’re looking for?”
“I think Beier may have been killed there,” Rathe said.
Trijn swore under her breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, chief,” Rathe said, and let himself out of the workroom.
It was almost dark by the time he made it home, but the lamp was lit and Eslingen had Wicked’s ordinary keeping warm on the back of the stove. He looked tired for once, and out of sorts, and Rathe frowned.
“Everything all right?”
“Oh, fine.” Eslingen didn’t look up from his beer. “Duca told me not to come back until I was ready to put my mind on teaching. Which is a relief in some ways, but—I won’t have coin coming in.”
“That’s easily enough mended,” Rathe said, with some relief of his own. “We can live on my pay for a bit, no worries.”
“I’m not worried, exactly.” Eslingen was still staring at the table. “I’m—not sure I’m suited to teaching, not for the long term.” He did look up then, blue eyes very dark in the dim light. “I spoke to Coindarel after the riots. You can’t say his men weren’t useful.”
“No, I don’t,” Rathe said, warily.
“If the Queen approves the new Guard, he wants me,” Eslingen said. “It would mean a lieutenant’s commission for certain, though it’s probably too late for a captaincy.” He paused. “If you hate it, I’ll say no. And it still may come to nothing.”
“We don’t need another rival,” Rathe said. “It’s hard enough to get certain people to take us seriously, the last th
ing we need is a troop of young sprigs of the aristocracy parading through the city pretending to catch thieves and generally causing more trouble than they prevent.”
“Is that what you think would happen?” Eslingen’s voice was cool.
“Can you tell me it wouldn’t?” Rathe held on to his temper with an effort.
“Can you tell me that it would?”
“I’ve seen the sort they bring in,” Rathe said, and in spite of his best effort, he could hear the bitterness in his voice. “Boys who don’t know the law, who don’t know that it applies to them—”
“Coindarel’s recruiting me,” Eslingen said. “Am I like that?”
“No,” Rathe said. “But you’re one man.”
“I’d be the captain. Lieutenant, at worst. I’d set the rules—set the tone.”
Rathe took a deep breath. “Why do you want this so badly?” It was the wrong question, he knew it as soon as he asked it, and waved his hand, trying to erase the words. “No, sorry—”
“I don’t want to be a fencing master the rest of my life,” Eslingen said. “I thought this would be a way I could stay in the city, do something useful. You’ve been glad of my help more than once—”
“But not as member of a rival force,” Rathe said. “To put it bluntly, you’re more use to me as you are.”
“But I can’t stay this way.” Eslingen’s voice was bleak. “Duca won’t put up with it forever, and more to the point, I won’t be a useful novelty for much longer. And you can’t afford to keep me—”
He broke off, but Rathe could finish the thought:even if I was willing to be kept. He couldn’t blame him, would feel the same way himself if their positions were reversed, but it hurt more than was reasonable. He took a deep breath. “Splitting our authority will just hurt everyone. It’s bad enough with the pontoises, and they’ve been in the city forever.” Longer than we have, even. He could see the words trembling on Eslingen’s lips, and said it for him. “And, yes, we usurped their authority, so we know better than most how it happens. But we’ve been good for the city.”
“I know,” Eslingen said. “I do know that, and the last thing I want is to diminish the points. And, yes, I do see how it could happen. But it wouldn’t be by my doing.”
Rathe nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
They stared at each other across the length of the table, the bones of Eslingen’s face more heavily outlined than usual by the light of the single lamp. It was what he would look like when he was old, Rathe thought, the fine fair skin fallen in on handsome bone. He wondered what the Leaguer saw in him.
“Well, there’s still time,” Eslingen said at last, a peace offering.
“Yeah.” Rathe nodded. But not so much that they wouldn’t have to decide, and soon. He put the thought aside, determined to match Eslingen’s generosity, and poured another drink for each of them.
Chapter Eleven
Eslingen woke as the clock was striking nine, unsurprised to find that Rathe was not only up before him, but gone. He had left the teapot swaddled in its cozy and a note pinned beneath it:If you’re still willing to help, I’m going to try to arrange for you and Istre to see Beier’s rooms. Come by the station—I’ll stand you lunch.
Eslingen stared at it for a moment, then twisted it into a spill and set it in the cup with a dozen other twisted bits of paper suitable for lighting lamps or starting fires. He’d do it, of course—the job needed doing, needed to be finished—but he still felt oddly unsettled by the previous night’s conversation. He thought this was an apology, at least of sorts, but an uneasy part of him wondered if he was making a mistake, if Rathe found him most useful as a stranger, without employ, and if that was why he was so opposed to City Guard.
Spelled out, though, the thought looked foolish: for one thing, Rathe had been clear from the start on what it was he didn’t like about the Guard, and Eslingen had learned enough about the city’s politics even in the short time he’d been here to believe Rathe was speaking the exact truth about the problems it was likely to cause the points. And for another—Rathe wasn’t the sort to speak of lemanry, not casually, not without meaning it. They hadn’t known each other quite a year, but he was sure of that much. Rathe was the sort who didn’t give easily, who’d rather sleep alone than kiss and part, but once his trust was given, it was a whole-hearted gift. He himself was a lighter sort by nature, and it was important sometimes to remember that not everything could be passed off with a jest. They would find their way to some solution, and in the meantime—he enjoyed the work at hand.
He dressed quickly but with care, and stopped at the barber before he made his way to Point of Dreams, well aware that he was looking his best. Rathe was for once in the main room, arbitrating a dispute between a pair of shopkeepers. Eslingen leaned against the wall to wait for its resolution, quietly pleased by the single appreciative glance the other had sent his way. At last the two women departed, still grumbling, and Rathe came to join him.
“I’m glad you could come,” he said. “I’m still waiting to hear from Trijn, but if she can pull it off, Istre’s said he’ll do it.”
“Not like I had anything better to do,” Eslingen said automatically, then wished he’d been more serious. Rathe grinned back, though, and Eslingen went on, “What exactly is it you want us to do, anyway?”
“Turns out Beier lodged there, and he used the roof for his observations, so I’m wondering what else happened there.”
“You think that’s where he was killed,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded.
“That would explain why the silver’s trying to return there—ah.” He broke off as b’Estorr appeared in the open door, looking around as though he was unsure what had brought him here. A girl in a patched skirt slipped past him and darted up the stairs. “Istre!”
“There you are.” b’Estorr was looking less well-turned-out than usual, his coat imperfectly brushed and his shirt visibly darned at the cuffs. “I canceled my classes.”
“You’re giving in early,” Rathe said.
b’Estorr gave a thin smile. “Between the races and the ghost-tide, there wasn’t much point.”
“True enough.” Rathe glanced at the stairs. “As I said in my note, I’m hoping I can get permission for you to look at Beier’s rooms—that has to be where he was killed, and I’m hoping maybe you can get some sense of how—”
“Besides shot full of silver?” Eslingen said, in spite of himself.
“I’d like to know how it was done,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen nodded. “And of course I’d like to know why, but I’ll settle for knowing what happened.”
“Rathe!” The chief point made her way down the stairs, a thin, hard-faced woman in a well-made suit. “Voillemin’s agreed to let me send my people, though if he gets a look at Eslingen, he’ll know for sure who’s really behind it.”
“I can stay behind,” Eslingen said, reluctantly, and was relieved when Rathe shook his head.
“Surely Voillemin’s not handling this himself, Chief?”
Trijn shook her head. “I doubt it. He said he’d have the junior on duty let you in.”
“That should be all right,” Eslingen said, with more optimism than he felt was truly warranted. “By all accounts, they don’t much like him either.”
Trijn grinned. “True. And if you’ll take a suggestion from me, you’ll be off now. Voillemin’s likely to be busiest in the mornings.”
“Sorry about lunch,” Rathe said, and b’Estorr shook his head.
“Oh, no, Nico, you don’t get off that easily. You can stand us a meal when we get back.”
“Fair enough,” Rathe answered, with an easy smile.
They reached Mama Moon’s just as the University clock struck noon, followed a heartbeat later by a ragged chorus of chimes from the surrounding neighborhood. The junior sitting on a stool at Beier’s door proved to be the youngest of Fairs’ Point’s apprentices, and she was happy to let them in.
“And if you don’t mind, sirs, I’ll
be off to find a meal while you’re here, seeing as we’re short-handed and I don’t know when I’ll get my relief.”
“Go right ahead,” Eslingen said, with his best smile. “And take your time. I expect we’ll be a while, and in any case we won’t leave until you’re back.”
“Thank you, sirs,” she said, with a bobbed curtsy, and disappeared down the stairs. b’Estorr studied the lock for a moment, then shrugged and turned the key.
“A mage-lock?” Eslingen asked, following him in.
“Not that I could see.”
“So he wasn’t that worried?” Eslingen looked around the sparsely furnished room. Beier had had two rooms, a small bedroom and this larger parlor that took up almost half of the upper floor, and there was a ladder against one wall that led to a closed trapdoor: access to the roof where he did his observations. “I thought most astrologers used the University’s ephemerides.”
“Some do,” b’Estorr answered. “I do myself. But if one has the space and the instruments, it’s always better to make one’s own observations.”
An open cupboard beside the ladder held not the usual cups and plates but a selection of astrologer’s instruments of gleaming brass. Eslingen ran his finger cautiously over the nearest disk, discovered only a thin film of dust. They’d clearly been in regular use up until Beier’s death. “What do we do next?”
b’Estorr ran his hand through his pale hair. “Let’s take a quick look at the roof to start—I’d like to see if he’s been doing magist’s work up there—and then look through the rooms?”
Eslingen nodded, and together they climbed through the trap door. Someone, presumably Beier, had built a wooden platform between the inn’s front façade and the point at which the roof began to slope more steeply upward; from the ground, Eslingen thought, the façade would hide most of what was happening on the platform. And most people wouldn’t look up, not to the inn’s roof after dark, not if there were no lights showing to draw their attention. There were marks on platform, three white crosses painted on the boards, and he realized that their centers were holes big enough to receive his finger.
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