“How can you stand to read that trash?”
Eslingen looked up to see Adriana looking down at him. She had been working in the kitchen all morning, and the stove’s heat had left her red-faced and sweating; she had unlaced her sleeveless bodice, and pinned up the sleeves of her shift, but it didn’t seem to have done much good.
“I like to see what people are thinking,” he answered, and shoved the jug of small beer toward her. “Can you join me?”
She shook her head, but lifted the pitcher and drank deeply. “I can’t stay, but I had to get out of the kitchen. Sweet Demis, but it’s scalding in there.”
“Pity you can’t serve cold food,” Eslingen said.
“Food served cold has to be cooked first,” Adriana answered. “But tonight should be easier. Most everything will be served cool, thank the gods—and Mother, of course.”
“Not quite the same thing,” Eslingen said, straight-faced, and the woman grinned.
“Though you’d never know it to listen to her.” She picked up the first broadsheet, scanned it curiously, her brows lifting in amused surprise. “I can’t believe this got licensed.”
“Look again,” Eslingen said, and Adriana swore softly.
“Forged—Tyrseis instead of Sofia.”
Eslingen nodded. “Someone has a sense of humor, I think. I didn’t notice it until I read it and looked twice.”
“Someone’s going to spend a few months in the cells for this one,” Adriana said. “And they’ll have earned it.”
“Assuming the points can catch her,” Eslingen said, “Or him, I suppose.”
“Printing’s a mixed craft,” Adriana answered. “Oh, they’ll call the point on this one easily enough, they’re hard on poor printers, and it’ll make them look a little better, seeing that they can’t catch whoever’s stealing the children—or won’t.”
“You don’t believe that,” Eslingen said, and was startled by his own vehemence. But it was impossible to imagine Rathe standing idly by while his colleagues helped the child-stealers, even more impossible to imagine him cooperating with them. Of course, he told himself firmly, Rathe wasn’t all pointsmen—wasn’t even a typical one, by all accounts.
Adriana made a face. “No, I don’t, not really. But with everyone pointing the finger at us, it’s hard not to blame someone else.” She sighed. “Gods, I don’t want to get back to work. Let me have another drink of your beer, Philip?”
Eslingen nodded, watched the smooth skin of her neck exposed as she tilted her head to drink. She saw him looking as she lowered the jug, but only smiled, and set it back on the table.
“Thanks. Think of me, slaving away to feed you—”
“Philip!” Devynck’s voice cut through whatever else her daughter would have said. “In here, please, now!”
Eslingen shoved himself upright, wondering if she’d finally decided to make known her feelings about any connection with him, and hurried into the inn. He stopped just inside the garden door, his hand going reflexively to the knife he still carried. Devynck was standing by the bar, hands on her hips, the waiters flanking her like soldiers; A lanky woman in a pointswoman’s jerkin stood facing her, more pointsmen behind her—at least half a dozen of them—and at her side was a small woman Eslingen thought he should recognize. He frowned, unable to place her, uncertain of his status, or Devynck’s, and the innkeeper turned to him.
“Philip. It seems that Chief Point Monteia here has received a formal complaint about the Brown Dog. She feels it her duty to investigate those complaints—” She glanced back at the lanky woman, and added, grudgingly, “not unreasonably, I suppose. She also feels it’s necessary to search the building and grounds.”
Eslingen nodded once, fixing his eyes on the group. The pointswoman—chief point, he corrected himself, Rathe’s superior Monteia—just said, “Mistress Huviet here has lodged a complaint with us, says you’re hiding the girl that’s missing from the Knives Road. We’re obliged to take that seriously.”
“And what business is it of Mistress Huviet’s?” Devynck asked. “I don’t see Bonfais Mailet in here claiming I’ve got his apprentice.”
Monteia gave a thin smile. “Mistress Huviet has kin in the guild, a nephew, I believe, who’s a journeyman, and about whom she’s worried.” The chief point’s voice was tinged with irony, and Devynck snorted.
“Not that Paas?” she demanded, and Monteia nodded. “Then she should hope he’s taken, it’d save her in the long run.”
The little woman drew herself up—rather like a gargoyle, Eslingen thought, or more like a crow, something small, and fierce, and dangerous when roused—and Monteia held up her hand.
“Aagte, that’s not funny at the best of times, and times like these, I’m forced to take it seriously. You’re not helping yourself with remarks like that.”
Devynck made a face, but folded her arms across her breast, visibly refusing to apologize. Monteia’s mouth tightened, as though she’d bitten something bitter. “The complaint has been made, and I will search this tavern with or without your cooperation, Devynck.”
“And what about the rest of the taverns in Point of Hopes—hells, there are three others off the Knives Road alone. Will you be searching them, Chief Point?”
Monteia shook her head. “I’ve no cause, no complaints against them.”
Devynck snorted. “Go on, then. Philip, go with them, don’t let them drink anything they haven’t paid for.”
Monteia grinned at that, a fleeting expression that lit her horselike face with rueful amusement, but Huviet bristled again.
“He’s in it as much as anyone, I told you that. You can’t let him lead the search.”
“I’m leading the search,” Monteia corrected her. “And Aagte— Mistress Devynck—has a right to have one of her people observe.”
Huviet compressed her lips, but Monteia’s tone brooked no argument. The chief point nodded. “All right. We’ll do this orderly, bottom to top, people. And if anything’s broken or missing, it comes doubled out of your salary and fees.” She eyed the group behind her, and seemed to read agreement, nodded again. “Ganier, watch the front, no one in or out. Leivrith, the same for the back.”
Devynck snorted again, and reached for the knot of keys that hung at her belt. “Half your station? I’m flattered.” She handed the keys to Eslingen. “They’re marked. Let them in wherever they want to go, the only secret here is where I get my good beer.”
“Ma’am.” Eslingen looked at Monteia, and the chief point sighed.
“Right, then. We’ll start with the cellars.”
Eslingen found that key easily enough—he’d seen it before, a massive thing, passed from hand to hand as needed—and unlocked the trap where the beer barrels were brought in. Monteia lifted an eyebrow at that, and he wondered for an instant if she knew there was a second, easier entrance from the garden. She said nothing, however, just motioned for one of the pointsmen to raise the trap, and swung herself easily down the ladder. Eslingen followed, reached for the lantern that hung ready on the side of the barrel chute. He fumbled in his pocket for flint and steel, but before he could find it, one of the waiters came hurrying with a lit candle, hand cupped around the flame. One of the pointswomen passed it down to him. He lit the lantern and set it back in its place, throwing fitful shadows. Monteia gave him another look, but said nothing, just stepped back to let her people file past, lighting their own candles as they went. The little woman—Huviet— came last of all, bundling her skirts against the cellar dirt.
“Help yourself,” Eslingen said, and wished instantly he’d chosen a less ambiguous phrase.
“You should know better,” Monteia answered, and nodded to her people. “All right, go to it. Make sure there are no secret rooms—and remember what I said about breakage.”
The cellar was large, and essentially undivided, except for the pillars that held the floor above. Monteia’s people moved through it with efficient speed, shifting the heavy barrels and the racked wines onl
y enough to be sure that nothing was concealed behind them. Huviet followed close behind, peering over their shoulder as each object was moved. With her skirts still bunched up, and the lack of height that made her hop a little to see past the taller pointsmen, she looked like nothing so much as an indignant gargoyle in the uncertain light, but then Eslingen caught a glimpse of her face, and his amusement died. She was absolutely convinced of Devynck’s guilt—of all their guilt, pointsman and Leaguer alike—and she wouldn’t be satisfied until a child was found.
“Nothing here, boss,” one of the pointsmen announced, and Monteia nodded.
“Upstairs.”
Eslingen trailed behind them, the keys jangling in his hand, pausing only to be sure that the lantern was well out. Monteia led her people into the kitchen—Adriana and the cookmaid stood back against the garden wall, arms folded, saying nothing even when one of the pointsmen nearly upset the stew pot—and she herself ran a thin rod into the huge jars of flour. Huviet peered over her shoulder, and into every corner, all the while darting wary glances at Adriana and the scowling maid.
“Nothing here either,” a pointsman announced, and Monteia straightened, one hand going to the small of her back.
“Devynck’s office,” she said. “And then upstairs.”
Monteia herself went through Devynck’s office, though she disdained to touch the locked strongbox that sat beneath the work table. Huviet looked as though she would protest, seeing that, but Monteia fixed her with a cold stare, and the little woman subsided. At the chief point’s gesture, Eslingen led the way into the garden and up the outside stair, then stood back while the pointsmen went into each of the lodgers’ rooms.
“I’ve four people staying with me now,” Devynck said, from the top of the stairs, “all known to me, Monteia, except Eslingen, and he came recommended by a woman I’d trust with my life. So that’s four rooms out of six, and the others are all empty. But see for yourself.”
“We will,” Monteia said, without particular emphasis, and Devynck snorted, and climbed down the stairs again, her shoes loud on the wood. The chief point made a face, and nodded to her people. “All right, get on with it—and remember what I said.”
Eslingen leaned against the wall, the suns’ light hot on his back. At least the other lodgers were away, either at their jobs, or, like Jasanten, at the Temple of Areton, and he made a face at the thought of explaining the searches to some of his more truculent neighbors. Still, he would deal with that later, if anyone noticed. So far, though, the pointsmen had been remarkably tidy in their work. He was just glad Rathe wasn’t among the group, and couldn’t have said precisely why.
He straightened as Huviet started to follow a pointswoman into one of the rooms, and touched Monteia’s shoulder. “Chief Point, I’ve no objection to her going into the untenanted rooms, but that woman has no status here, and I won’t have her in the lodgers’ rooms.” He left the accusation hanging, delicately, and saw Monteia suppress a grin.
“Mistress Huviet, you will have to stay outside.”
Huviet drew herself up. “You keep taking their part, Chief Point. One would think you were on their side.”
“I’m here to act for the city’s laws,” Monteia said. “This search is at your behest, mistress, that’s all you have a right to.”
Huviet looked as though she was going to say something else, but as visibly swallowed her words. She turned on her heel, and moved down the hall, to stand ostentatiously in the doorway of the next room. “Be sure and check the walls for hidden panels.”
Monteia rolled her eyes, then looked at Eslingen. “So you’re the new knife. Rathe spoke to you?”
“Yes.” Eslingen kept his eyes on the city woman, moving on to the doorway of the next room.
“Good.” Monteia nodded. “He speaks well of you, at least on first acquaintance. I hope you’ll keep his advice in mind.”
“Send to Point of Hopes if we have trouble,” he said. Eslingen tilted his head at the pointsmen filling the hallway. “And who do we send to for this, Chief Point?”
Monteia looked at him. “There are a lot of other things I could be doing, Eslingen, things that would close the Brown Dog for good. And that might be simplest right now, seeing that there are plenty of people who’d like to see it closed, just because Devynck’s a Leaguer and a soldier when it’s a bad time to be either.”
Eslingen looked away, acknowledging that she had the right of it. “People are scared,” he said, after a moment, not knowing how to apologize.
“I know it,” Monteia said, flatly, and then shook her head. “I’d have to be deaf not to hear what’s being said, and I’ve been offered coin to be blind, too, for that matter. To close my eyes and not see, what did she call it, events taking their course.”
“Fire?” Eslingen asked, instantly, and as quickly shook his head. “Surely not, not in a neighborhood like this, everything cheek by jowl—”
Monteia gave a twisted smile. “You think like a soldier. I doubt anyone hereabouts would destroy real property, they’ve had to work too hard to get it. But that’s why I’m here, and that’s why I’m offending the hells out of an old friend.”
Eslingen nodded. It was like war, a little, or more like taking a city. You saved what you could through whatever methods were necessary. You didn’t make friends, you usually lost some, but you kept some part of yourself intact. He doubted Monteia would appreciate the analogy, however, said only, “If we get any further trouble, Chief Point, I promise we’ll send to you.”
“Good.”
“We’re finished here, ma’am,” one of the pointsmen said. “Still nothing.”
Monteia nodded briskly. “Right. Downstairs, then.”
Eslingen stood aside with an automatic half bow, and the chief point grinned. “Served with Coindarel, did you? He always was one for a pretty man with good manners.”
“And I was beginning to like you, Chief Point,” Eslingen muttered.
He followed her down into the garden, well aware that Devynck was waiting, hands on hips, beside the fence that marked the edge of the kitchen garden. She fixed him and the chief point with an impartial glare, and said, “Find anyone, Monteia? My keys, Philip.”
Eslingen handed her the knot of metal, and she restored it to its place at her belt, still staring at Monteia.
The chief point shook her head. “No. Nor, for the record, did I expect to, and so I told Mistress Huviet when she made her complaint.”
“They’ve just been moved,” Huviet said. “She had warning, they took the children away before we could get here.”
“Do you have any proof of that?” one of the other pointswomen snapped, and Monteia held up her hand, silencing both of them.
“My people have been in and out of the Old Brown Dog half a dozen times since the children started disappearing—easily half of those since Herisse Robion vanished—and all without warning. There’s been no sign of children, or are you calling me a liar, mistress?” Huviet said nothing, and Monteia nodded in satisfaction. “If anything, Devynck’s been discouraging the local youth from coming here. I will take it very ill if there’s any further disturbance in this neighborhood.”
“It won’t be us who causes a disturbance, Chief Point,” Huviet said, stiffly.
Before Monteia could say anything to that, Loret appeared in the doorway, one hand in the waistband of his breeches where he stashed his cudgel. “Eslingen—”
“Trouble?” Devynck asked, eyes narrowing.
“There’s people here, ma’am, they say they know the points are here, and they want to make sure everything’s all right.”
And I wish I thought that meant they were on our side, Eslingen thought. He said, “I’ll deal with it.”
“Not alone,” Monteia said, and fixed her eyes on Huviet. “If this is your doing, mistress—” She broke off, gestured for Eslingen to precede her into the tavern. To his relief, a pair of pointsmen followed, drawing their truncheons.
The main door was clo
sed and barred, but Eslingen could see blurred shapes moving outside the windows, and could hear the dull buzz of voices. Not angry, not yet, not calling for blood, but the potential was there, clear in the note of the crowd. Monteia’s frown deepened, and she looked at Eslingen. “Go ahead and open it. I’ll talk to them.”
Eslingen’s eyebrows rose at that—he lacked the chief point’s confidence in her powers of persuasion—but, reluctantly, he slid back the bar. Monteia flung the door open, and stepped out into the sunlit street.
“What’s all this, then?”
The pointsmen stepped up to the door, but did not follow her into the street. Looking past them, Eslingen had to admit he admired their restraint. A group of maybe a dozen journeymen, all in butchers’ leather aprons, were gathered outside the door, and beyond them the respectable matrons of the neighborhood had gathered, too, along with a couple of master butchers. They looked less certain of the situation, torn between disapproval of the tavern and disapproval of the journeymen’s protest, but they made no move to haul their juniors home. Scanning their faces, Eslingen thought he recognized the woman whose son he’d sent home, and wondered whose side she would be on.
“Well?” Monteia demanded, and a familiar figure stepped out from among the journeymen.
“Have you taken the child-thief?” Paas demanded. “Bring her out, let us see her.”
“There are no children here,” Monteia said, and pitched her voice to carry to the edges of the crowd. She ticked her next words off on her fingers, a grand gesture, calculated to impress. “There are no children, no sign that any children were here, no secret rooms, no suspicious anything. Nothing but a woman trying to go about her business like the rest of us. I have been through this building from cellar to attic, and there’s nothing here that shouldn’t be. And unless you, Paas Huviet, have more evidence than your mother did, I’ll thank you to keep your mouth closed. If you didn’t drink too much, you wouldn’t be thrown out of taverns.”
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