A woman with a softly lined face under a starched cap said, “Forgive me, Advocat, but isn’t it possible that there was some–quarrel, some anger between you, perhaps even something petty of which you weren’t even aware, that’s holding his ghost from you?”
“If I may, madame,” b’Estorr said, and Gausaron waved her hand in permission. “A ghost may withdraw itself from the people and things she was most concerned with in her lifetime, but at the ghost‑tide she will still be present, if unfelt, until those people and things have no more presence in this world. If that had been the case, I would have felt the intendant’s presence, and indeed, that was what I expected to find. But there was nothing.”
“The lack of a ghost is hardly decisive evidence,” Gausaron said.
“In any other time of year,” b’Estorr said, “the lack of a ghost would hardly be evidence, indeed. There are many who die untimely who don’t feel they’re–worthy–of the attention their ghost would draw. Who feel, for one reason or another, that it was, however violently, their time to die. However. We are well into the ghost‑tide. The only time of year when the timely dead are felt. The city–this very room–teems with them. And Intendant Leussi and Advocat Holles were lemen for close to twenty years. The only possible reason that neither the advocat nor I have touched the ghost is that his ghost has been bound. And by the person who murdered him.” He tilted his head to one side, and smiled, a singularly sweet smile that Rathe had learned to mistrust. “I hope that’s sufficiently clear to the regents.”
Gausaron glared at him, and leaned back in her chair.
“With respect,” Rathe said, “the alchemist’s report also suggests that there were–anomalies–involved with the death.” He had received the report the previous afternoon, hastily copied but legible, and he’d worked with the chief alchemist Fanier often enough to recognize when the man was hedging his bets. Fanier had noted changes consonant with “external influences,” though no internal evidence of that influence: not enough on its own, but coupled with the absence of a ghost, enough to raise questions in the mind of any pointsman. He only hoped it would be enough for the regents.
“And there have been similar cases in the court records,” Holles said, “both precedents for reopening an investigation such as this, and for ghosts bound at death. I have taken the liberty of compiling a summary list of those cases, and my court clerks will be happy to bring any related documents the regents would like to see.”
“A generous offer, Advocat,” one of the regents murmured, and Gausaron’s frown deepened.
“And one I see no need of.”
“Madame,” Holles said. “Do you deny me?”
Gausaron hesitated. “I do not see evidence–”
“I will have this murder investigated,” Holles said. “I would prefer with your blessing, madame, and the blessing of the regents, but I will act without it if I must. The points bear the queen’s authority, the regents oversee their activities only in that the points operate within the walls of the city. I am the queen’s advocat, the points serve the queen’s law. And the queen’s law has been violated, and that takes precedence over the city’s dignities.”
Gausaron shook her head, but Rathe thought he saw defeat in her eyes. “You are determined to proceed in this course? Despite the scandal, the notoriety, that will inevitably ensue?”
Trijn made a noise in her throat, but her face was impassive. Holles’s head lifted. “Being murdered is not a scandal, it is a tragedy. It is certainly not a disgrace. I’m not afraid of scandal, because there will be none. There will be truth.”
“Even if you have to pay for it?” Gausaron snapped. “Be very wary, Advocat, that what you get is truth. You are at least entitled to value for money.”
Her eyes were on Rathe as she spoke, and in spite of himself, his fists tightened. “As Madame has doubtless heard, I don’t take fees.”
Gausaron smiled thinly. “No. Nor will you in this case. Because it will not fall to you, pointsman.”
“He’s my senior adjunct,” Trijn said tonelessly. “Address him by his proper rank.”
An angry flush rose in Gausaron’s cheeks, but she inclined her head. “My apologies, Adjunct Point. But this is a matter that needs to be handled with a certain amount of delicacy, of diplomacy, since the advocat insists that it be pursued. And such are almost unknown southriver. Point of Hopes, that is where you were last stationed, is it not, points–Adjunct Point?”
As you damn well know. Rathe controlled his temper. “Yes.”
Gausaron smiled at the Regent on her right. “And southriver is so recently popular, at least on the common stages. However, the unfortunate events of last summer–an honest guildsman shot dead, near riots in the streets–we cannot have a repeat of that, not with the midwinter ceremonies almost upon us.” She paused, glancing along the line of women, gathering nods of agreement. “This, then, is our official word. The regents will not tolerate such misrule as went on in Point of Hopes last summer. If this is to be a points matter, then it will be handled with the respect due to the persons of birth involved in it.” She looked at Trijn, and this time there was triumph in her eyes. “I believe you have at your station an adjunct point named Voillemin, a man of respectable parentage. It shall be his responsibility to investigate this–murder, and bring it to a satisfactory conclusion.”
“Satisfactory to whom?” Holles demanded, and Rathe saw him bite his lip as though he’d betrayed himself.
“It is not your place to tell me how to run my station,” Trijn said.
“This or nothing,” Gausaron answered. “Our responsibility is to the well‑being of this city and its people, and that will not be served by another rout like last summer. That is our decision.”
The dismissal was palpable. Holles hesitated for an instant, as though he wanted to say more, but then swept a bow that was a hair too deep for sincerity. Straightening, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, the scarlet robe billowing around him. The others followed, less gracefully, but no one spoke until they were outside All‑Guilds. Rathe glanced up at the massive doorway, carved with yet another version of Heira’s Banquet, and couldn’t suppress a wry smile. Heira was one of the Pillars of Justice, but in this place, that incarnation was far from honored.
“So, Advocat,” Trijn said, “what in hell has the advocacy done to earn the enmity of the regents?”
Holles rubbed his eyes as though they pained him. “I thought that was done with years ago–Gausaron wasn’t even on the Council then.” He shook himself. “It’s not the advocacy, it was Bourtrou. The queen determined that the chamberlains should be chosen from among the judiciary, not just among the regents, since the position has a direct effect on the health of the entire realm, not just the city. Bourtrou wrote the brief in support, and the regents blamed him for it, instead of the queen.”
Rathe grinned. “So we can maybe look for suspects among the regents?”
Trijn held up a hand. “No, Voillemin can look for suspects among the regents, and by Sofia, I am inclined to set that particular dog to hunt.”
“This Voillemin,” Holles said. “Is he any good at all?”
“He wouldn’t be one of my adjuncts if he weren’t,” Trijn snapped, “I don’t care who he’s related to.”
Holles’s eyes sought Rathe, who shrugged infinitesimally. It was the kind of case that could make a pointsman’s career, or destroy it, and from what he’d seen of Voillemin, he wasn’t suited to that kind of pressure. If anything, he felt sorry for the man–and sorrier still for Holles, whose leman’s murder was being used to punish the points.
“I just don’t want it made–convenient,” Holles said, almost helplessly, and Rathe wished he could reassure him. But anything he could think of, any words of comfort, sounded sour, almost hypocritical in the face of the regents’ evident reluctance, and he could see the same thought in both Trijn’s and b’Estorr’s faces.
“No,” Rathe said quietly, when no one else spoke.
“I’ll do what I can to keep an eye on Voillemin, Advocat, that’s my proper duty, and I can at least promise that to you.” It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough– at least for now, at least until he makes a mistake–and from the look on the advocat’s face, relieved and grateful, it might be. Rathe sighed. So long as he was able to make good on the promise.
The Masters of Defense had their own hall, a long, low building that might once have been a rope walk or a sailmakers’ loft, hard by the river at the western end of Point of Dreams. The ground floor was broken up into a warren of rooms–classrooms on the river side, where the light was best, but also what looked like a students’ commons and even a small library, where a lace‑capped woman frowned over a stack of foolscap. She glared at them as they passed, and rose, skirts rustling, to close the door against intrusion. Caiazzo ignored her, as he ignored the crowd of students chattering outside one of the practice rooms, and Eslingen copied the merchant’s carriage, bowing gracefully to a young man who seemed to want to take offense. That was one complaint the broadsheets made against the Masters, that their students, once half trained, spent too much time looking for an excuse to test their skills, and it was, Eslingen thought, probably true enough. The same thing happened in every regiment he’d ever served with–he’d probably done it himself, if he wanted to think about it; the only difference was that your fellow soldiers were quicker to beat those pretensions out of you, if only to save their own necks.
At the end of the long hall a stairway rose to a second floor, framed in a window that must have cost a young fortune. Caiazzo slowed his pace, and a scrawny, grey‑haired woman–no, Eslingen realized, with some shock, a man in skirts and a woman’s square‑necked bodice, carrying a bated sword–appeared in the doorway of the nearer classroom.
“Master Caiazzo.” He bowed, magnificently unconscious of his strange dress. “Master Duca says you should go on up.”
“Thank you,” Caiazzo answered. Eslingen blinked, schooling himself to show no reaction, but the merchant‑venturer’s gaze flicked toward him anyway, and the dark man smiled.
“Don’t worry, Philip, I’m sure they won’t waste you in dame’s parts.”
So presumably the man was rehearsing for, being trained for, one of the midwinter farces, short, silly plays for the short, cold days, Rathe had called them, where the players played against type and women dressed as men–and vice versa, apparently. Eslingen had been looking forward to seeing one, but it had never crossed his mind that he might be expected to participate.
The stairway opened onto a massive open space, a room that ran the full length of the building under the ceiling’s arched beams. Light streamed in through another wall that was almost entirely windows, not good glass, green and bubbled, but glass all the same, and Eslingen was reminded instantly of a billet he’d once had south of Ivre. The town–it was a newly freed mercantile center–had offered them the use of the former landame’s hall, and they’d discovered too late that the townspeople had already removed everything that was portable, including the wooden partition walls. The company had spent most of the summer sleeping in the single long room without even shutters to close the emptied window frames. It had been surprisingly comfortable–the weather had been ideal, the ventilation superb even in Ivre’s heat–but the lack of privacy had become tiresome in the end.
This hall wasn’t as big, but it was almost as empty, except for the rank of weapons that filled the far wall. There was a wild mix of blades, heavy cavalry swords and daggers long and short and lighter dueling weapons, as well as spontoons and a set of halberds and a handful of oddities like old‑fashioned bucklers and mailed gloves, all seemingly in perfect condition, and Eslingen wondered just how much it had cost the Masters in fees to keep them all here, and not locked away at the Aretoneia. Outside the window, sunlight glittered on the river, the water cold and grey as steel, and the roofs of Point of Hearts on the far bank glowed red and blue in its light, but from the look of the sky, already filling with clouds, the light wouldn’t last much longer. The air smelled of a cold stove and the river, tar and damp, and Eslingen flexed his shoulders under his coat. It was almost too cool now, but not once the fights began.
The admitting masters were already there, talking quietly at the far end of the hall, and there was a drummer, too, tuning her paniers in the farthest corner. The soft, dull notes filled the damp air like a live creature calling. Duca saw them coming, and moved to meet them, the other masters hanging back a little. There were three men and a woman, each one dressed as though for a different play, and Eslingen wondered again what he was letting himself in for. There was still time to refuse, to apologize politely and say that a mistake had been made, that he wasn’t the man they were looking for. He could stand the embarrassment–except that Caiazzo would lose face, and that, Eslingen thought, was a responsibility he could not afford.
“Lieutenant,” Duca said, and Eslingen sketched a bow, knowing he was committed. Caiazzo fell back a step, leaving him to his fate, and Eslingen glanced back to see him smiling faintly, as though the situation amused him.
“Master Duca.”
“Welcome to our hall.” Duca gestured widely, bringing the other masters forward. “My colleagues, proving master Sergeant Peyo Rieux, challenging masters Janne de Vicheau, Verre Siredy, and Urvan Soumet. My masters, the candidate Lieutenant Philip vaan Esling, formerly of Coindarel’s Dragons.”
The woman–Rieux–blinked once at that, but there was no other response. She and Duca would be the arbiters of the match, and Eslingen eyed the three men, wishing he knew more about the guild’s rules and regulations. Soumet was short, but built like a young ox, with an ox’s flat, expressionless face and liquid eyes, hair tied back under a sailor’s kerchief that went oddly with his good linen. Of all of them, he was dressed for a match, coatless and barefoot; the other two were slim and elegant in well‑cut coats and careful paint, but there the resemblance ended. One–de Vicheau?–was two fingers’ breadth the taller, lean and severe, pale hair pulled back with a black ribbon that matched his breeches and the trim on his dark grey coat. He looked like a young landseur, and Eslingen wondered fleetingly if he was one of the Vidame of Vicheau’s numerous progeny. She had at least half a dozen sons by as many fathers, all dropped as lightly as a dog whelps; she took ferocious care of her only daughter, and reportedly had settled a farm on the man who had sired her. But that was probably what he wanted people to think, Eslingen added silently. More likely he came from the town of Vicheau, and added the article to match his looks– or Duca added it for him, the way he did for me. The third man was dressed like a fop, his long hands painted with tiny golden suns to match the embroidered ones scattered across the wide skirts of his coat, but there were corded muscles beneath the paint, and Eslingen was not deceived. None of them were going to be easy opponents; about the best he could hope for was that they would choose styles that he could handle.
“Any objections?” Duca’s tone made it clear the question was mere formality. “Then let’s begin. Lieutenant, you understand the rules?”
Eslingen schooled his face to neutrality. “I’ve had them explained to me.”
Duca smiled slightly, and Eslingen blinked. The trick of gesture really was very like Caiazzo himself. “Then you’ll excuse me if I explain again.” He gestured to the woman at his side. “Sergeant Rieux and I will be the judges of the match. It’s our business to call the points, but we’re also assessing style and performance. You’ll fight each of the challengers–they’re all full masters of the guild, in good standing–with their choice of weapon. If they choose a weapon you don’t know, you may refuse, and another will be chosen, but two refusals will disqualify you. Do you understand?”
Eslingen nodded, newly aware of the stillness in the hall. Even the drummer had brought her pans to absolute silence, both palms flat against the drumheads. Duca might have agreed to Caiazzo’s plan, but not all the masters were happy with it.
“Normally this is more
of an event,” Rieux said. “A public event. But, under the circumstances…”
“There are precedents,” Siredy said easily, and the ox‑faced man scowled.
“Performance is the test.”
“Which is something that we, us here today, are more than capable of judging,” Rieux said. It sounded like an old argument, and Soumet dipped his head.
“I’m not denying that, Sergeant. What I’m saying is we’re not testing how the man will fight with a crowd looking on–no offense to anyone, Sergeant, to the lieutenant or to Master Duca, but we all know how different it is onstage.”
De Vicheau sighed. “May we remember the reason for this test? He may never go onstage.”
“But he’d be one of us,” Soumet said.
“The point is that Gaifier’s dead,” Rieux said.
“He was hardly well last year,” Siredy murmured. “And look how that went.”
“But he’d won his place fairly in public battle,” Soumet said. “Not like this.”
“I can’t do it alone,” Rieux said. “And you, Urvan, are hardly the man to help me.”
“I know my skills,” Soumet said. “No one’s ever complained of me.”
He looked more than ever like an ox, and Duca lifted his hand.
“Enough.”
Instantly, Soumet fell silent, but Duca gave him a long look before he finally spoke. “The match continues. Have you decided your order?”
“Siredy won the toss,” de Vicheau said.
“Very well. What weapon?”
“Dueling sword and dagger.”
That was a relief, Eslingen thought–those were weapons he knew, even if he was hardly a duelist–and he risked a glance at Caiazzo. The merchant‑venturer stood with his arms folded, visibly withdrawn from the occasion. I brought you this far, the stance seemed to say. Now make the most of it.
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