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Point of Hopes p-1

Page 24

by Melissa Scott


  “If it weren’t for the fair,” Fourie went on, “they wouldn’t be quite so concerned. Of course, if it were just southriver brats going missing, they wouldn’t even have noticed. Makes me sick. Do your jobs, but expect us to interfere every chance we got, and don’t, whatever you do, let doing your jobs disturb us.”

  “Astreiant seems a bit more—reasonable,” Rathe ventured, wondering where this was leading.

  The surintendant seemed on the verge of a snort, then shook his head. “No, you’re right about that. Astreiant seems to have a finer understanding of what’s involved in the enforcement of the queen’s law. Gods only know where she got it. It doesn’t seem to run in the nobility.”

  “Or the haut bourgeoisie,” Rathe said, unable to stop himself, and Fourie responded with another thin smile.

  “Oh, they’re worse. And I daresay you and I could go on like this all day with our grievances, but that would get nothing done. So, Rathe. What have you done about Caiazzo?”

  Not precisely the haut bourgeoisie, no longdistance trader is, but close enough, Rathe thought. I might have known where this was leading. “I wasn’t aware, sir, that you precisely wanted me to do anything. I thought my writ was to keep an eye on him, for any possible involvement in these disappearances, and that I’ve done. I’ve spoken with him, mostly on the matter of his printers. And that knife of his I made the point on at the end of the Dog Moon.” He shook his head. “But—I’m sorry, sir—I just don’t see that this is anything Caiazzo would get himself involved in. Where’s the reason behind it, sir? And, more to the point, where’s the profit? Oh, I know what you said about political profit, but that’s never been his style, it’s too—too far down the road. Caiazzo always wants results he can see now as well as make use of later. Sure, he could make use of a political profit later, but where’s the immediate profit?”

  Fourie shrugged, a faint frown creasing the space between his eyebrows, and Rathe realized he’d let himself get carried away by his own argument. “Have your investigations turned up something more likely, Adjunct Point?”

  “I’ll agree it’s likely the starchange is involved,” Rathe said, stung, and remembered b’Estorr’s account of the rumors circulating at the university. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been wondering about these hedge-astrologers the Three Nations were complaining about.” He hadn’t meant it, had just been looking for an alternative, but as his own words sank in, he pursued the thought. “Think of it—where have they come from? They don’t claim association with any of the altars, or with the university—and they’ve pissed off the students as a body, which sensible people don’t do—and ostensibly claim no political affiliation. And if you’re not buying that bill of goods for Caiazzo, sir, you can’t buy it from these.”

  The surintendant studied him with a jaundiced gaze. “Then I trust the arbiters of the fair, or Fairs’ Point, or University Point, are looking into it, as well as you. But at the same time, I don’t want you ignoring the possibility of Caiazzo’s involvement in favor of your own theories— I very carefully don’t say because you like him. This is too important, Nico. Whatever you think of my feelings toward him, I wouldn’t order you do to something like this if I didn’t think—feel—there was good reason. But I want it done.”

  Rathe took a deep breath, held it until his own temper subsided. Fourie had spent more time in the company—the presence—of the grande bourgeoise. If Gausaron had left Monteia, and Rathe himself, a little short-tempered, it was astonishing that the surintendant had kept his notoriously short temper in check for so long. “I’ll keep an eye on him, sir, though I won’t pretend it’ll be easy.”

  Fourie smiled, a bloodless expression, without humor. “If it were easy, Nico, I wouldn’t have insisted on your doing it.”

  And that, Rathe thought, was as close to a commendation as anyone got from the sur, short of a eulogy.

  When he got back to the station, the hour-stick was just showing midday, and he made a face at it: it had already been a long day, and didn’t look to get any shorter. He found Houssaye, returned his coat to him, and shrugged gratefully back into his own, welcoming its familiarity. He had just settled in at his worktable when Salineis poked her head in the door.

  “Lieutenant Eslingen to see you, Nico.”

  Rathe bit back a groan—he doubted the Leaguer was there to thank him for anything—but nodded. “All right, send him in.”

  Eslingen had clearly found—or taken—the time to tidy himself up from the depredations of a night spent in one of Sighs’ cells. His hair was caught neatly back, though the ribbon no longer matched the color of his coat, his hat was brushed, its plume uncrushed, and his linen was bright. Rathe wished for a moment that he hadn’t been in such a hurry to return Houssaye’s coat, then put the thought aside with impatience. The Eslingens of this world would always seek to gain advantage through appearance, and the Rathes could never hope to match them. What did surprise Rathe was the lack of resentment he felt toward the soldier.

  “Adjunct Point.” Eslingen’s voice was icy, and Rathe’s heart sank. Clearly, Eslingen felt rather differently about the whole thing.

  “Eslingen, look, I’m sorry about what happened, but I didn’t have a choice.”

  “It wasn’t me who started this—Seidos’s Horse, you ought to thank me for ridding you of a troublemaker.”

  “We don’t generally shoot them dead,” Rathe shot back, and, hearing his voice rise, got up to close the door of the narrow anteroom. He shook his head. “Forget it, it’s not worth arguing about.”

  “I’m inclined to disagree with you, Adjunct Point, seeing as it’s lost me my job.”

  Rathe turned to stare at Eslingen. “You’re joking. No, no—sorry, forget I said that. She let you go?”

  “Can you blame her? In times like these, does she want a Leaguer who, even in self-defense, and—what was it the magistrate said the release said—defense of property, was seen to kill a member of one of the most influential guilds in the city? I’d say that would be bad for business in a bad time, wouldn’t you, Adjunct Point? So now I’m in your city without employment or a roof over my head. All because I did what you told me to, Rathe, and that’s send for the points if there was any trouble. I did, and look what happened.” He gestured widely, and for the first time Rathe noticed the heavy saddlebags on the floor at the other man’s feet. “Hells, I thought we Leaguers were looked on with disfavor, I didn’t realize the extent of the loathing people have for your lot.”

  “That was Ranazy,” Rathe said, and didn’t add, and you know it. “He’s a bully and not a cheap one. And he makes us all look bad. You know how Devynck feels about Monteia—for that matter, you know how Devynck feels about me. So you can tar us all with the same brush, fine, everyone else does, or you can see that it’s the truth. We’re all blamed for the actions of a few. Sound familiar?”

  Eslingen stared at the pointsman for a long minute, the anger fading as he recognized the justice of what Rathe had said, and done. “It sounds familiar,” he said. “Can I sit?” He nodded to the chair along the wall.

  Rathe rubbed his eyes. “Of course. Sorry. Not a good morning for you, and the night won’t have been much better, for all they’re a decent lot at Sighs.” He sat back down behind his table, leaning his elbows on its well-worn surface. “What can I do?”

  Confronted by it, Eslingen found himself at a loss. He had been bolstering himself with his anger, thoughts of the demands he would make on the pointsman, but now he could only shake his head. “Gods know, Rathe. I need a place to live, I need a job.” He grinned suddenly. “But don’t think I’m applying for a job with the points. I don’t think we’d suit, do you?”

  “I’ve seen odder,” Rathe answered, but tipped his chair back to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. “There ought to be plenty of work available just now—” He heard Eslingen draw breath to protest, and hurried on. “—but I can understand a lot of it’s not really what you’re looking for.” He tipped his head in a sh
rug. “It’s never easy for gentlemen to find appropriate work, and that’s what your commission would make you, isn’t it? So hiring on as a fairground knife would be right out.”

  “Putting that aside, since I will get hungry eventually, would anyone hire a Leaguer right now?” Eslingen asked.

  “Some would,” Rathe answered, absently, but then the thought struck him. There was one job that he knew of, was almost sure the place hadn’t been filled, and it would get him personally out of a good deal of trouble… “Some might.” Oh, gods, he added silently, am I really going to do this? He leaned forward, intent now. “Look, Eslingen, you’ve got every right to be angry—my having no choice doesn’t help you losing your place—but maybe, just maybe, I can make it up to you. That was what you came here for, wasn’t it?”

  Eslingen nodded, the faintest of smiles on his handsome face. “That, and the thought of wringing your neck.”

  “Which would have put you back in cells,” Rathe pointed out, “and here rather than Sighs.”

  “I’ve slept in stables before.” The smile might have widened a fraction, but Rathe couldn’t be sure.

  “All right then. But I want to be plain with you about this. I think the job would suit you. The man I’m thinking of lives like a gentleman, and is highly respected throughout Astreiant.”

  “I’m sensing a ‘but,’ ” Eslingen said.

  “A couple of them, actually. His name’s Hanselin Caiazzo, and if you were still working at Devynck’s, I’d tell you to ask her about him, you’d get an honest answer. He’s a longdistance trader—merchant-venturer,” he added, and Eslingen nodded again. “A large part of his business is perfectly legal and above board, but there’s a sizeable percentage of it that isn’t.” Rathe cocked his head at the other man. “I don’t know how much time you’ve spent in Astreiant, all in, or what you know about a place called the Court of the Thirty-two Knives.”

  Eslingen sat back in his chair, one dark eyebrow winging upwards. “I’ve heard of it,” he said. “Devynck told all her soldier friends to stay away from it. That was enough for me.”

  Rathe nodded. “Good. There’s nothing they like better in the Court for a bunch of roistering, on-leave soldiers to come in thinking they’re tough enough to handle it, because they’re not. But Caiazzo has contacts and businesses within the Court. He can walk in and out, pretty much at will—but then, he is southriver born.”

  “And you?” Eslingen asked, when it seemed clear that Rathe had finished. The pointsman looked startled.

  “Me? Yeah, I’m southriver born, too.”

  “Can you walk in and out of this Court with impunity?”

  “I’ve done it.”

  “But not like Caiazzo does it,” Eslingen finished, and Rathe grinned. There’s a lot you’re not telling me, Adjunct Point, Eslingen thought, and decided not to pursue the matter. Rathe had said enough to get his message across. “So what’s so special about this Caiazzo, then? I assume there are reasons none of your lot have scored a point on him yet.”

  “Oh, there are, chief among them being he’s good at covering his tracks, most of his success comes from his legal businesses, and people are loyal to him. And he has canny associates, as well as a deft hand with a fee.” Rathe paused. “But the thing is, he had this bodyguard—”

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry, I don’t step into a dead man’s shoes. Not like this. Thank you kindly, Rathe, but—”

  “Will you shut up for a moment?” Rathe said, equably. “His last bravo’s alive and well and sitting in a Customs Point cell.” Eslingen looked at him, and Rathe met the stare with a bland smile. “Duelling.”

  “So who are you doing the favor?” Eslingen demanded. “This Caiazzo or me? For that matter, it seems extraordinary that you have to make amends to two different people for matters of point scoring. I’m beginning to be just the slightest bit afraid of you, pointsman. You’re not safe.”

  “It’s not as elaborate as all that. Caiazzo’s tough deserved what he got, and better for him this way.” Rathe shook his head. “Look, he called himself a duellist, but he didn’t call his duels formally. He just sort of took it upon himself to, well, execute them. Caiazzo was having fits trying to figure out how to be rid of him anyway. Not that I did it to oblige him, but when I was able to make the point, fair and square, on a charge of murder, I did it and Caiazzo didn’t make more than a token complaint. And if he’d—Douvregn, I mean—if he’d gone on like that much longer, he’d’ve gone mad. Duellists can, you know, especially if they don’t cry fair and public.”

  “You know a lot about duelling. I presume that’s just in pursuit of the law,” Eslingen said, eyeing the blade that lay along Rathe’s leg.

  “Not really,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen looked dubious.

  “Oh?”

  Rathe shrugged. “A friend of mine’s a duellist. Course, he’s also a necromancer, so he has an outlet. Of sorts.”

  Both Eslingen’s eyebrows rose. “What an interesting life you lead, pointsman.” He took a breath. “I want to know about Caiazzo. You said there were a couple of ‘buts’ involved.”

  “It’s about these children.” Rathe looked unhappy. “The surintendant—the surintendant of points, my ultimate boss—thinks Caiazzo might be involved. I don’t. I’ve been after Caiazzo for almost five years now, I know the kind of mud puddles he likes to play in, and children aren’t it. I’m certain in my heart he’s not involved, but the sur wants me to keep an eye on him. Took me aside this morning to tell me that, though how I’m supposed to do that when I have all these disappearances in my book, and have to check up on illegal printers…” He paused and took a breath, darting a rueful glance at Eslingen. “Sorry. But if the sur wants Caiazzo watched, then I have to take care of it. Hanse—Caiazzo needs a new bravo. You need a job and a place to live, and I can promise you, his house is a lot grander than the Brown Dog.”

  “It would have to be,” Eslingen murmured, but there was no denying the sudden surge within him. He had to husband his coin if it was to last to the next campaign season, and if he could live in a gentleman’s comfort till then, all the better. “How’s he treat the hired help, then?”

  “Better than they deserve, I imagine,” Rathe said. “Douvregn was always very well turned out.”

  “Not livery?”

  “I told you, he’s not a gentleman, Eslingen, he’s a merchant, a southriver merchant, and proud of it. He’s not the sort to ape the nobility, so set your heart at rest. You’ll be able to afford to dress as well as ever, without the spectre of livery.”

  “But with the very real spectre, I imagine, of finding myself dead in the Sier if he should find out I’m spying on him,” Eslingen said.

  Rathe shook his head. “Caiazzo’s not like that—not quite like that. He’s no idiot. I’m trusting you to find out that he’s not involved in these disappearances. I expect you to find out he’s not involved.”

  “And if I find out he is?”

  Rathe grimaced. “Then get out, fast, and let me know.”

  “Why am I even considering this?” Eslingen demanded.

  “Because it’s a long summer until anyone good is hiring again, you told me so yourself, especially soldiers of your rank. Because you saw what happened at the Old Brown Dog. Leaguers aren’t well loved at the best of times, and right now—”

  “Right now, we’re right up there with pointsmen in popularity, aren’t we?” Eslingen said, with a return of his earlier anger. Rathe ignored it.

  “Because these are children who are disappearing. Southriver, northriver, from all over the city. Gone without a trace, and I tell you, Eslingen, usually only a runaway can manage that.” He frowned into the distance, eyes fixed on something only he could see. “I’ve seen that happen enough times. The serious runaways, the ones with real, hard reasons to run. They’ll do it, and we can turn over every stone, and not find them. Because they know when and how fast to run. But this number of kids, from so wide a range of backgrounds… they’re not r
unning, Eslingen. Someone’s taking them. And I don’t think it’s Caiazzo, but I can’t make that decision, I can’t take that risk. You need a job, a place to live. I need to be able to keep an eye on Caiazzo without having to give up the other jobs at hand, which I refuse to do.” He broke off, glaring at Eslingen, but the look wasn’t really directed at him, the Leaguer realized. He was angry with whoever had suggested he write off the children already gone. And Rathe never would.

  “I was a runaway,” he said quietly. “And you’re right. I knew when and how far and fast to run. But I was reasonably lucky. It might not have ended up this well. All right. I may be out of my mind, Rathe, but if this Caiazzo will have me, I’ll keep an eye on things for you.”

  Rathe smiled, and the easing of lines from his face made Eslingen wonder just how many hours a day the adjunct point was working on this business. “You want to meet him now?”

  “Are you off duty already?”

  Rathe made a face. “Oh, calling on Caiazzo is part of being on duty, it seems.” He stood, stretched, and came around the desk. “So, if you’re interested…”

  “Oh, I am,” Eslingen assured him, and immediately wondered if he was doing the right thing. The astrologer had said his status could change at the new moon, but he couldn’t think this was quite what he had had in mind. Before he could say anything more, however, the door opened, and Monteia appeared.

  “Good, Rathe, you’re back. Oh. Lieutenant Eslingen.” Monteia shut the door behind her. “How are you?”

  “Well, thank you, Chief Point.”

  Rathe gave him a wary glance, not quite trusting the demure tone, but the Leaguer didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Good,” Monteia went on. “It shouldn’t have happened, none of it, but once it did we had no choice but to bring you in. I want to thank you for your understanding.”

 

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