Reluctantly, Caiazzo smiled. “We’re not going to my factor, no. I— have business, in the Court.”
Eslingen blinked, but then managed the translation. Even in the few weeks he’d spent in Astreiant, and especially these last few days in Caiazzo’s house, he’d learned the difference between business at court, business in the courts, and business in the Court. And if it was the last… no wonder Caiazzo wanted his bodyguard along, if he was visiting the Court of the Thirty-two Knives. He had wheedled the story behind the name out of one of the maids—it had been the base of a band of knives who had controlled most of the southriver neighborhoods a century ago, and it had taken three regiments of Royal Dragons to bring them down—and if even half the stories about their descendants were true, Rathe’s and Devynck’s warnings had been restrained. “I’ll fetch my pistol, then,” he said aloud, and Caiazzo nodded.
“Do that.”
Denizard looked up sharply. “She won’t like that.”
“Then she can come here, next time,” Caiazzo answered. “Get your pistol, Eslingen, and hurry.”
They went by river, for all it was a short journey, just to the public landing north of Point of Graves. The city gallows stood there, Eslingen knew, and wondered if it was for the pointsmen’s convenience. He followed Caiazzo and Denizard through the narrowing streets, aware of the curious and covetous looks, aware, too, of the way women and men melted out of sight into doorways and alley mouths. Warning someone? he wondered. Or themselves warned off by Caiazzo’s presence? Caiazzo didn’t seem to see, but when Eslingen looked closer, he could see a small line like a scar twitching to the left of the trader’s mouth. He was still angry, and Eslingen wondered again just what he was getting into.
The streets narrowed further, walls springing up between the buildings themselves, and Eslingen realized with a small shock that they were in the Court proper. Once, generations ago, it might have been some noble’s country house, back when the landames kept their country houses on the south bank of the river, but it had long since been broken up, first into merchants’ houses, and then into tenements, until the shells of the once-elegant building had acquired odd accretions, and rickety lean-tos propped up the tottering stones of the walls. It would have been a bad place to attack, Eslingen though, thinking of the other Royal Dragons, would still be a bad place to attack, or to be attacked. He could feel the weight of the pistol in the pocket of his coat, balanced by the familiar drag of his sword, and was not fully reassured. They were being watched, more closely than before, and he risked another glance at Caiazzo. The trader’s mouth was set, but the scar was no longer twitching, and Eslingen hoped that was a good sign.
Caiazzo stopped at last in front of a low shopfront, low enough that he had to bend his head to pass under the broad lintel. Denizard followed without a backward glance, and Eslingen went in after her, the skin between his shoulder blades prickling. If they were attacked inside, the low doorway would make it very hard to escape. To his surprise, however, the only visible occupant of the shop was an old woman, neat in a black skirt and bodice, an embroidered cap covering her grey hair. She sat on a high stool in front of a writing board, ledger open in front of her, her feet not quite touching the ground, fixed Caiazzo with an unblinking stare. There were no goods on the counter, Eslingen realized, no indication of what—if anything—this shop sold.
“How’s business, dame?” Caiazzo asked, and tipped his head in what was almost a bow.
The old woman shook her head, closing the ledger, and hopped down off her stool. Standing, her head barely reached to the trader’s armpit, but Eslingen was not deceived. There would be a bravo, probably more than one, within easy call, and the gods only knew what other protection.
“Well enough,” she said. “My business. But what about yours, Hanselin? That’s less well, by all accounts. You bring not only your left hand, you bring a new dagger with you, whom I’ve never seen before. Do you feel the need of a dagger?”
Caiazzo shrugged, the movement elegant beneath his dark coat. “Times are uncertain.”
The old woman looked far from convinced, but she nodded. “Inside.” She turned without waiting for an answer, and pushed through a door that had been almost invisible in the paneling. Caiazzo made a face, but moved to follow. Eslingen put a hand on his arm, all his nerves tingling now.
“Permit me,” he said, and stepped in front of the trader to go through the door behind the old woman. There was no shot, no hiss of drawn steel, and he glanced around the narrow room, allowing himself a small sigh of relief as he realized it was empty except for a table and chairs.
The old woman took her place at the head of the table, fixed Eslingen with a dark stare. “Not what you expected, eh, knife? Thought it would be more dangerous?”
Eslingen blinked once, decided to risk an answer. “I see enough danger right here, ma’am. I’ve been a soldier, I know what old women can do.”
Caiazzo shot him a warning glance, but the woman laughed. “I dare say you do, soldier. I knew you were one, from your boots.”
Caiazzo said, “No hurry, dame, but you said it was important.”
The old woman looked at him. “That’s rude, Hanselin, and not like you. Business must be bad.”
“Business, in general, is well enough,” Caiazzo said, through clenched teeth, “except for the one small thing that you know about. Somewhere between here and the Ile’nord something’s breaking down. If it’s here, dame, you’ve got problems.”
The woman’s stare didn’t waver. “We both have the same problem, Hanselin. Nothing has come in from the Ile’nord. Nothing. Not coin, not goods, not word.”
Caiazzo flung himself into the chair opposite her, swallowing an oath. “It’s your business, too, dame. What’re you doing about it?”
She raised an eyebrow, clearly getting close to the end of her patience, and Eslingen saw Denizard tense fractionally. The old woman merely folded her hands on the table top, and said, “The same as you. I sent men north, a few weeks back, when you first mentioned the problem to me. Yours or mine, one of them will find out what’s keeping her, Hanselin. She owes us—forgive me, owes you too much to be playing us foul like this. I expect one or both of mine back within the next few days.”
“Mine should be in soon, too,” Caiazzo said. “But the fair is well underway. I have two seasons of trade to underwrite. Without that gold, it could be a very cold winter, and I won’t be the only one feeling the chill.”
The old woman leaned forward, her hands flattening, palms down, on the smooth wood. “Your knife is new, untested, and you trust him with knowledge like this?”
Eslingen felt his shoulder blades twitch again, wondering if Caiazzo had blundered, and if he, Eslingen, was going to be the one to answer for it. The trader barely glanced his way.
“Oh, and am I so poor a judge of character? A fool who’s useful for channeling the gold—forgive me, goods—we both need, but not to be trusted in matters of my own business, my own household?” With a single fluid movement, Caiazzo pulled a short, wide-bladed knife from beneath his coat, and drove it into the table between him and the old woman. She didn’t move, her eyes going first to the knife and the new cut, the first, it made in the polished wood, and then back to Caiazzo. “I know you, dame,” Caiazzo went on. “You’ve still got the arm for it. If you can’t trust me, or worse, think I’m too fatally stupid to be your associate in this, then do something about it. Otherwise—”
He let the word hang, and the old woman looked back at him, cold eyes unchanging. Gods, the man’s mad, Eslingen thought, and if it’s on his challenge, there’s damn all I can do. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat, wrapping his fingers cautiously around the butt of his pistol, and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Denizard’s hand close on the back of Caiazzo’s chair, the knuckles white beneath the skin.
The old woman reached out, jerked the knife free with an expert’s hand, her expression still the same, and Eslingen thought, gods, if she
goes for his heart, I’ll go for hers, and we can sort it out later. He tilted the pistol, still in his pocket, hoping the flint would work in the confined space. It would be more likely to set his coat on fire, if it fired at all, but there wasn’t room to draw his sword, and his knife was no good at this range.
“I’d forgotten,” she said at last, “that your mother was a binder.” She laid the knife down flat on the table, and pushed it back across to Caiazzo. “You’ve kept it well. She’d be pleased.” She looked at Eslingen, and he let the pistol ease back into its place. “My apologies if I touched your honor.” She leaned forward as Caiazzo reached for his knife, placed her hand on his. “I do trust you, Hanselin, as I would my own child. This business with the Ile’nord…” She shook her head. “If I didn’t trust you, if I didn’t trust your judgment and acumen—well, as you say, we wouldn’t be doing business together. I’ll send word to you as soon as I hear anything.”
It was clearly a dismissal, and Eslingen glanced curiously at Caiazzo. The trader rose, nodding. “And I’ll do the same. But you know that’s of use only if they bring the gold.”
“If they bring word only, Hanselin, your autumn ventures are still safe. Your reputation is still more than sound. One way or another, the money will be there for you.”
“Yes, but…” Caiazzo gave a grim smile. “Then where will my reputation be? I appreciate it, dame. I don’t want to take you up on your offer.”
“Nevertheless, it stands.” The old woman smiled back, widely this time, and Eslingen shivered. The implication was clear enough even to him: if Caiazzo failed, she would provide the capital, but at a price.
Caiazzo bowed again, his temper barely in check, and stalked from the room. Eslingen followed hastily, and heard Denizard shut the door again behind them. Caiazzo said nothing until they were well clear of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives, and had turned onto the street that sloped down to the landing.
“I bet it stands,” he said at last. “Nothing she’d like better than to get that far inside my business. Well, it’s not going to happen—” He broke off, head going back like a startled horse, black eyes fixing on something beyond the landing. Eslingen reached automatically for his pistol, and Caiazzo laughed aloud, looked up to the sky. “Gods, Bonfortune, it’s about time the stars turned my way.”
Eslingen looked again, and saw another caravel, larger than the one he’d seen before, making its way cautiously up the river. Caiazzo’s red and gold pennant flew from its mast, and the deck was piled high with cargo.
“Aurien, by the Good Counsellor,” Denizard said, sounding as startled as the trader, and Caiazzo laughed again.
“A half month early, thank Bonfortune, and heavy laden. We’ll meet him, Aice, see what he’s brought me. You, Eslingen—” He turned to face his knife, his whole expression suddenly alive and excited. “Go to my counting house—do you know where it is? Tailors’ Row, by the Red Style—tell Siramy and Noan to meet me at the wharf. Then—” he grinned, gestured expansively, “take the afternoon off.”
“Yes, sir,” Eslingen said, and the trader hurried toward the waiting boat.
Eslingen watched him go, suddenly aware that he had been left on his own at the edges of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives, and then, impatient, shook the thought away. The Tailors’ Row was well clear of the Court, back toward Point of Sighs; he lifted a hand to the boat, saw Denizard wave in return, and then turned west toward the Tailors’ Row.
It wasn’t a long walk to the counting house, a narrow, three-story building tucked between two much larger warehouses. He delivered his message to a clerk and then to Siramy herself, watching her expression change from uncertainty to a delight that hid—relief? He couldn’t be sure, and hid his own misgivings behind an impassive face. Caiazzo was definitely short of coin, that much was obvious, but why and what it meant was anybody’s guess—except that it probably meant that the longdistance trader was not involved with the missing children. Rathe had been right about one thing: Caiazzo didn’t get involved with anything that didn’t promise a hefty profit, and this venture with the old woman, whatever it was, had certainly been intended to provide decent funds. Except, of course, that it had clearly gone wrong. Eslingen sighed, wondering if he should use his unexpected freedom to find Rathe and let the pointsman know what had happened. There would be less risk now than any other time, but he found himself suddenly reluctant to betray Caiazzo’s interests. The man was having enough troubles; the last thing Eslingen wanted to do was to add to them. The two factors—and a harassed-looking clerk, arms filled with tablets and a bound ledger—hurried past him toward the river, and Eslingen turned toward the Rivermarket. Whatever else he did, whether he contacted Rathe or not, he did have to buy some new shirts. He could make his decision after he’d searched the market for something decent.
The Rivermarket was less crowded than it had been the other times he’d ventured into its confines. Probably most people were shopping at the Midsummer Fair, he thought, and hoped that would mean he would be able to strike a few bargains with the secondhand clothes dealers. There was a woman who claimed contacts at the queen’s court, who swore that she had the pickings of the landames’ cast-offs, and he threaded his way through the confusion until he found her stall. The clothes, some good, some much-mended or threadbare, good only for a seamstress to take a pattern from it, were piled every which way on a crude trestle table, watched by the woman and a beetle-browed man whose knife was easily at the legal limit. He was dividing his attention between the stock and a thin girl a little younger than apprentice-age, and Eslingen wondered just which one he’d been hired to watch. The man saw him looking, and frowned; Eslingen met the stare with a bland smile, and began sorting through the piled clothes, pulling out shirts. Most were too worn to be of use, though one still had a modest band of lace at the collar and cuffs, and he set that one aside to examine more closely later. The lace was good quality; maybe, he thought, he could pick it loose and find a seamstress to attach it to a different garment. He dug deeper into the pile, found another shirt that looked almost new, and spread it out to check for damage. The linen was barely worn, the only sign of its provenance a ripped hem—and that, he thought, holding it up to gauge the size, he could even mend himself. It would be large, but not unwearable, and he bundled it with the other, bracing himself to haggle.
“Eslingen!”
It was Rathe’s voice, and Eslingen turned, not knowing whether he was glad or sorry that the decision was taken out of his hands. The pointsman had abandoned his jerkin and truncheon, was wearing a plain half-coat open over shirt and trousers, and he carried a basket loaded with what looked like the makings of a decent dinner. Eslingen blinked at that—he had somehow assumed that Rathe would have someone to do his housekeeping—and nodded a greeting. “Rathe.”
“I hope you’re doing well in your new employment,” Rathe went on, the grey green eyes sweeping over the other man’s clothes and the shirts he held in his hands.
“Well enough,” Eslingen answered, and took a deep breath as the stall-keeper moved toward them. “I need to talk to you, if you’ve got the time.”
Rathe nodded, without surprise. “Always. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m not sure that would be fully politic,” Eslingen said, grimly, and Rathe grinned.
“Maybe not, at that. New clothes?”
Eslingen nodded, and the stall-keeper said, “Those are from Her Majesty’s own court, good clothes that’ll stand a second owner. And they don’t come cheap.”
Eslingen took a breath, irritated by the assumption, and Rathe said, “From Her Majesty’s court, maybe, but by way of the other Court.” He looked at Eslingen. “You wouldn’t credit the trouble we have with laundry thieves.”
Eslingen grinned, and the woman said, “That’s not true, or fair, I get my goods legitimately and you know it.”
“And charge court prices for clothes you bought from northriver merchants,” Rathe answered.
It see
med to be a standing argument. Eslingen said hastily, “How much?”
The woman darted a look at Rathe, then resolutely turned her shoulder to him. “A snake and two seillings—and the lace alone is worth that much.”
It probably was, Eslingen admitted, but pretended to study the shirts a second time.
The woman crossed her arms. “That’s my only price, Leaguer. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” Eslingen said, and fumbled in his pocket for the necessary coins. The woman took them, and Eslingen folded the shirts into a relatively discreet package. “Shall we?”
Rathe nodded. “Where are you bound?”
“I hadn’t decided. I was told to take the afternoon off.”
“You should see the fair, then,” Rathe answered.
“Actually, I had some business at Temple Fair,” Eslingen said. “I’d like to see what the latest word is on the clocks.”
“Bad, that.”
“And what do the points say it was?” Eslingen asked.
“The same as the university,” Rathe answered. “I’ll walk you to the Hopes-point Bridge.”
“Good enough,” Eslingen said, accepting the rebuff.
They made their way through the market and climbed the gentle slope to the Factors’ Walk in a surprisingly companionable silence. At the base of the bridge, the Factors’ Walk ended in a paved square where the low-flyers gathered between fares. In the summer heat, the air smelled richly of manure and the sour tang of old feed, but the fountain and trough at the center of the space was surprisingly clean. Eslingen paused to scoop up a drink in his cupped hands, disdaining the cup chained above the spigot, and Rathe said, “So. You wanted to talk to me, you said.”
Eslingen stopped himself from glancing around—there would have been nothing more suspicious—and shook the water from his palms. “Yes. I suppose so, anyway.”
He stopped there, not knowing where to begin, and Rathe said, “Anything on the children?”
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