Point of Knives (14 page)

“Van Duiren.”

Eslingen checked the impulse to lean forward to look, waited instead until she came into his field of view. Sure enough, it was the woman who had claimed to be Old Steen’s wife, though she was dressed now in a plain skirt and bodice, a long sleeveless coat open over the rest of the outfit.

“Pawnbroker’s coat,” Rathe said, and Eslingen glanced at him.

Rathe grinned. “It’s got hidden pockets and a few spells woven in, or most of them do. The dishonest ones will palm your goods and give you back a reasonable facsimile that will last just long enough for them to get away.”

“The things I learn from you….” Eslingen shook his head..

On the street below, van Duiren fumbled with her keys, first the main lock, and then a smaller, inner lock. She pushed back the door and disappeared into the shop, and a few moments later the shutters began to open.

“Isn’t it a bit late in the day to open a counting house?” Eslingen asked. “I’d think keeping the doors open after sunset would be an invitation to trouble, with second sunrise not coming for another hour—especially if she keeps cash on hand.”

“It would be, normally,” Rathe said. “But if she’s a fence, she’s got connections that will protect her—not least of which would be Mirremay—or this is just the place where she has the preliminary meetings. Or she’s up to something else entirely. But, no, I don’t really expect to find your gold in there.”

“Pity, that,” Eslingen said, and stopped abruptly. “Look there.”

“I see him.” Rathe fumbled in his purse, came up with a small telescope, the kind artillerymen used to train their guns. He focussed on the stranger, a man in a scholar’s long robe, and shook his head as the man ducked into van Duiren’s shop. “Well, that’s something to tell Maseigne Vair. A Demean by his hood, too, though I didn’t get a decent look at his badge.”

“The badges are—?” Eslginen cocked his head.

“What branch or house he’s affiliated with within the University,” Rathe answered.

“Seems a bit unsubtle to go walking around like that,” Eslingen said.

“Yeah, the thought had crossed my mind,” Rathe said. “It could be a decoy—wait, hello.”

This time Eslingen did risk leaning forward just a little. A woman was coming down the street, a well-dressed woman in a neat brimless cap, a closed parasol balanced on her shoulder. Rathe had his glass out, peering through it as she paused at the counting house door, and Eslingen heard the sigh of satisfaction.

“Faculty of Sciences and Herathean House. Even if I hadn’t gotten a good look at her face, that will help identify her.”

Eslingen looked back at the counting house. Lamps glowed in its windows as the dusk closed in, the hour of full dark between the setting of the true sun and the rising of the winter-sun. Occasionally a shadow moved across the light, but it was impossible to see any details. All too soon, it seemed, the front door opened again, and the two scholars left together, the woman using her parasol now as a walking stick.

“Do we follow?” he asked, and Rathe shook his head.

“Too late, damn it. I should have thought.”

A moment later, the last of the lamps went out, and Rathe swore under his breath. Van Duiren emerged a moment later, carefully locked the doors behind her, and started away in the opposite direction. Rathe shook his head.

“Well, at least we know she’s using the place for meetings—and that there’s a University connection. Maseigne Vair will be glad to know.”

Eslingen took a deep breath. “Maybe Young Steen had the right of it.”

Rathe looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, not quite the way he’d do it,” Eslingen amended. “But he thought we should break in and search the place—him and me, he meant, not you and I.”

“That’s illegal, you know, Lieutenant.” Rathe shook his head. “And I can’t think of a better idea.”

The front of the counting house was hopelessly exposed, but there was bound to be a back door, if only for the night-soil man. Rathe found the alley without difficulty, and stepped into its deeper shadows. In the darkness, Eslingen’s shirtcuffs seemed unnaturally bright, and Rathe was glad of his own oversized coat. It wasn’t fashionable, but it did help to hide his presence. He touched Eslingen’s shoulder.

“It’s the fourth house on the left,” he said softly, and saw the other man nod.

They picked their way along the rutted street, through mud that smelled of rotting cabbage, and Rathe glanced over his shoulder at the houses behind them. Fortunately, the alley was only used for garbage, and the smell meant that most of them kept their doors and windows shut tight, and Rathe turned his attention to the counting house door. It bore a massive lock with a tiny keyhole, the kind of magistically warded lock that its maker’s guild proclaimed “unbreakable” and he made a sour face. The only good thing was that it probably meant the door wasn’t barred as well.

“And how do you propose to get past that?” Eslingen asked. He looked up at the windows on the upper floor. “I could probably climb in there, but it wouldn’t exactly be subtle.”

Rathe reached into his purse again, came up with the ring of keys he’d had made from the wax impressions he’d taken from Old Steen’s belongings. He held them up in the dim light, studying the wards, chose three that looked as though they might fit. It was likely he’d have to resort to picks, or his universal key, but he thought there was a chance Old Steen might have been twisty enough to have keys to this back door. He tested them quickly: all the right size, one even magistically active, but none were meant for the particular lock. He put them away, and pulled out his universal key. Well, not exactly his; he’d taken it off a serial burglar who’d plagued Point of Hopes some four years past, part of the man’s elaborate and magistically active toolkit. All of it had been slated to be melted down to keep it from falling into improper hands, but that had seemed a waste of something so cleverly made as the universal key, and Rathe had discreetly pocketed it. Three or four more items had gone missing, all equally useful and Monteia had said nothing when they didn’t reach the fire.

“This should do it,” he said, and turned the bezel at the top, setting the solar and lunar positions in the tiny orrery. The key chimed once, the sound almost inaudible, and he adjusted the size of the wards to fit the opening.

“That’s never standard issue,” Eslingen said.

Rathe snorted. “Not hardly.” He slipped the key into the lock, probing for the tumblers. He could feel the warded lock resisting, the key sliding from the spelled surface, but then the key’s magic caught and coiled in the gaps of the ward, easing it away, and the key slipped securely into the tumblers. Rathe turned it carefully, gave a sigh of satisfaction as the lock gave way. He pushed gently, hoping there was no bar, and the door swung open before him.

“You continue to amaze me,” Eslingen said, and together they slipped inside.

Rathe closed the door softly behind them, and they stood for a moment in the dark, listening for any sign that they were not alone. There was nothing, no sound, no breath of air, not even the smell of cooking, just the faint bitter scent of a stove long unused and uncleaned. Eslingen moved first, his eyes adjusting to the light, and Rathe heard the gentle clicks as he tested the shutters.

“Strike a light if they’re solid,” Rathe said, and a moment later light bloomed as Eslingen lit a candle end. Van Duiren’s, Rathe noted, taken from a box on the windowsill, and that meant they’d better be quick, or she might notice a missing candle.

“Not much of a housekeeper,” Eslingen said.

Rathe glanced around the bare room. Even in the candle’s uncertain light, it was possible to tell that the floor hadn’t been swept in weeks, and the stove was chipped, its door sagging open. “Well, we know she doesn’t live here.”

“Or make much pretense of it, either,” Eslingen said. He held the candle high so as not to dazzle them.

“I supposed there’s not much need,” Rathe said. But there ought to be, she ought to be doing everything possible to keep van Duiren and Delon separate, and if that meant the expense of extra servants and wood for the fire, it should be worth it. Unless she’d never intended it to be more than a superficial disguise, and that didn’t make sense, either. There was something wrong here, he could almost taste it, something that he was missing, and something wrong in the house, too…. He held his breath for a moment, feeling the air on his face, listening for any sound, even the softest of movements from within. But there was nothing at all, nothing to justify the sense of unease, and he worked his shoulders, annoyed with his own unease.

“The front room,” he said.

Eslingen cupped his hand around the candle, shielding the light, and Rathe nodded. “I’ll go first.”

The shutters at the front of the house were closed and locked as well, but Rathe found a firescreen beside the stove and set it to shield the single lamp before he allowed Eslingen to light it. This larger room, at least, looked more normal, the stove old but recently cleaned, a clerk’s slanted table braced against one wall. There was a smaller table as well, flanked by a set of cushioned stools. A teapot stood upside down on the shelf above it.

“No ledgers,” Eslingen said, and Rathe shot him a glance. The Leaguer was developing an eye for the essentials—or, more likely, he’d looted enough businesses to know what to look for.

“And nothing on the clerk’s table.” Rathe checked the inkwell—only a quarter full—and the quill lying beside it was badly trimmed. The cake of red ink was dry and cracked: a better pretense than in the empty kitchen, but still not one that was meant to deceive a careful eye. There was no book-presss, no clock, not even a chest, only an unlocked paper-box on shelf above the clerk’s table. He opened it anyway, and found it half full of inexpensive paper; when he rifled through it, he saw without surprise that every sheet was blank.

“What now?” Eslingen asked.

“Upstairs,” Rathe said. That was where the strongroom should be, if in fact there was one. He picked up the lamp, leaving Eslingen to collect the candle, and started up the narrow stairs.

There were two rooms on the upper floors, and it was instantly obvious which was the strongroom. That door was bound in iron and it was fitted with another warded lock. Rathe pushed open the other one anyway, to reveal a chamber empty except for a traveler’s chest. He heard Eslingen’s breath catch, and shook his head.

“No lock.”

“Damn.”

“Check it anyway,” Rathe said, and turned his attention to the strongroom door.

The wards on this lock were stronger, tuned not to the usual solar indices, but to the cycles of Heira, and it took him a few minutes to adjust the key’s orrery to catch the spell. He made the last change, and felt the wards give, the key finally meshing with the tumblers. He felt for the lock, eased it open, and looked over to see Eslingen on his feet again beside the open trunk.

“Any luck?”

“Nothing. Old clothes and an out-of-season hat.”

Even though he hadn’t expected anything better, Rathe felt a twinge of disappointment. Just once, it would have been nice to have the solution just tumble into his lap. He killed the thought and pushed open the strongroom door. The single window was heavily shuttered, and when Eslingen tapped it, it had the heavy ring of iron. Rathe lit the two standing lamps and scanned the narrow space as the light swelled. It was typical enough, shelves on both the side walls, and a table in the center of the room, far enough back from the window that no one could see in, but still close enough to catch the best of the light. There was a brass-bound cashbox beneath the window—fitted with yet another warded lock, Rathe noted—and there were at least a dozen ledgers on the walls. He suppressed a groan at the sight. They were a solid night’s work on their own, and he wasn’t prepared— And if he found the gold’s location, what then? He couldn’t give it to Caiazzo, and he didn’t want to claim it for Mirremay. Give it to Monteia, he supposed, though the resulting fight would be fierce.

And that was another profitless thought. He looked at Eslingen. “You start on the books—the newest first, I think. I’ll open the cash box.”

“Is there anything in particular I’m looking for?” Eslingen asked, and took down the nearest leder.

“I wish I knew,” Rathe said frankly. He knelt beside the cashbox, looking from the lock to his key and back again. “Anything out of the ordinary.”

“Which I’ll only be able to tell you after I’ve read the lot,” Eslignen muttered.

“Why do you think I gave you the job?” Rathe frowned thoughtfully at the cash box. There was a monogram scratched on the lid above the lock, an “S” rather than anything that could match van Duiren’s aliases, and he took out the ring of Old Steen’s keys again. Sure enough, the largest of the keys matched the lock. “Old Steen had a key to fit—no, this was his box, but why she’s left it here—”

“A lure?” Eslingen asked.

“Possibly. Though what she’d gain from it….” Rathe shook his head, and lifted the lid, not surprised to see a mix of coin, more silver than gold. They were jumbled together, not separated out like most merchants’ hoards, and he ran a hand through the mess, dredging up enough gold coins to sort out a few foreign pieces. They all bore a customs mark, however, and he sat back on his heels, sighing.

“No luck?” Eslingen said.