Point of Knives (16 page)

“Her word and her knife’s,” Chaudet said. “They saw him clearly, and he’s not an unnoticeable man.”

“Still,” Rathe said.

Chaudet shrugged. Jiemen said, “The chief was hoping you might speak for him.”

“I can for some of the night,” Rathe said, with caution. ‘I was in bed with the man’ wasn’t much better as far as alibis went, and even less likely to be believed than burglary.

“In any case,” Chaudet said, “Mirremay wants a word.”

Rathe slanted a glance at Jiemen, who shrugged.

“I’m to go along with you,” she said. “The chief’s orders.”

“Right,” Rathe said. He moved closer to the door, herding the others out onto the landing, paused to lock the door behind him. Eslingen would have to fend for himself.

It was a bright day, clear, with a few high clouds and a northwesterly wind sweeping down from the river, bringing the first touch of the winter to come. Chaudet shivered and turned up her collar, the first sign of weakness Rathe had seen in her, and Jiemen fished in her pocket for a pair of half-gloves. Rathe jammed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders to the wind, and looked again at Jiemen.

“The chief’s sure about this?”

“Van Duiren came to us with a knife slice along her ribs and a swollen jaw where someone knocked her down,” Chaudet said. “It’s hard to argue with that.”

Rathe nodded reluctantly. It wasn’t impossible, he’d known accusers to mark themselves before now, but it argued a certain desperation. “Has her case been heard?”

Chaudet shot him a glance. “Funny you should ask that, Rathe. Caiazzo’s managed to get the whole lot impounded, locked up in the back of the advocate’s chambers.”

Rathe shrugged. “Seems significant, that’s all.”

The main room at Point of Knives was unexpectedly crowded, Mirremay’s second adjunct standing on a stool to shout down half a dozen women and men who faced off across the width of the room. They seemed to be arguing about short measure, and Chaudet gave them a wide berth.

“Upstairs,” she said.

Mirremay’s workroom was an oasis of quiet after the noise downstairs. The stove was lit, a kettle simmering on the hob while one of the station’s apprentices tended the teapot, and a thin stick of incense helped drive back the smells of the street. Van Duiren reclined on the daybed, a damp cloth against her jaw, while a serious-looking young physician took her pulse. The bruise was real enough, Rathe saw instantly; her bodice was cut, and there was blood on the fabric, but it looked as though her stays had turned the worst of the blade. Mirremay had been leaning against the end of her worktable, while her secretary took dictation, but she pushed herself upright as they entered.

“Rathe. Chaudet told you our news?”

“Yes.” Rathe glanced again at van Duiren. “I hope you’re not badly hurt, dame?”

“No thanks to your friend,” the merchant retorted. “It’s just lucky I wasn’t killed.”

“Where is Lieutenant Eslingen?” Mirremay asked.

“I’ve no idea,” Rathe answered.

“He wasn’t there,” Chaudet said, and Jiemen nodded.

“I’ll vouch for that, chief.”

Mirremay lifted an eyebrow. “You astonish me.”

“And in the meantime, I’m set upon in the streets,” van Duiren interjected. “And I have paid my fees, Chief Point.”

“Indeed you have,” Mirremay said, “and we’ll get to the bottom of this. Rathe. What do you know of Eslingen’s movements yesterday?”

“Most of the day we were together,” Rathe said, cautiously. “We dined together, too.”

“And after?” van Duiren demanded. She sat up, holding the sliced pieces of her bodice together. “What of the night?”

Mirremay didn’t bother to suppress her grin, but she said, “Dame, you should be abed. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

The physician dipped his head. He bore a Demean badge at the collar of his plain blue robe—but then, Rathe thought, a Demean doctor was more likely to cooperate with Mirremay than was a Phoeban. “Indeed she should, Chief Point. And if you’ll permit me, Dame, I’ll see you home and safely settled.”

There was no arguing with that, though for a moment Rathe thought van Duiren would try. But then she sighed, and let the doctor help her to her feet. “Perhaps you’re right. But I stand by my charge, Chief Point.”

“We’ll find him,” Mirremay promised, and the doctor helped her away. The noise from the main room was suddenly louder, the argument continuing, and after a moment Chaudet moved to close the door. Mirremay leaned back against the edge of her table.

“You really don’t know where he is, Rathe?”

“I do not,” Rathe answered promptly. “However, while I hesitate to call a woman of Dame van Duiren’s stature a liar—”

“Oh, go right ahead,” Mirremay said. “My guess is she cut herself, and paid one of her carters to take a swing at her.”

Rathe paused. “Then—forgive me, chief, but why accept the charge?”

Mirremay looked down her nose at him, and Rathe lifted his hands. She was after the gold herself, she’d never made any bones about it even if she did plan to turn it in for the reward, and this was her way of letting van Duiren lead her to it.

“Sorry, I’m slow this morning.”

“You should get more sleep,” Mirremay said.

“So you can speak to Eslingen’s whereabouts?” Chaudet asked.

“Yes, the night long,” Rathe answered. “But, Chief Point, if you want to find what van Duiren’s hiding, I have a proposal for you. Call the point, arrest Eslingen—and give her the rope to hang herself.”

Mirremay nodded slowly, but Chaudet gave him a distinctly disapproving look.

“I wouldn’t care to share your bed, Rathe.”

“Philip’s no fool,” Rathe said. “He’ll understand.” He only hoped it was true.

Eslingen waited until he heard the lock catch and the footsteps retreat from the door before he shrugged himself into the rest of his clothes. He very much didn’t like the sound of those charges—attacking a respectable merchant was the sort of thing that Astreianters took very seriously, most of them being merchants, respectable and not—and he liked even less being left to fend for himself while Rathe went off to deal with Mirremay. It reminded him unpleasantly of how he’d ended up working for Caiazzo in the first place: he’d been forced to shoot a man to protect the tavern where he’d been working, and even though it was self-defense, he’d spend a night in the cells at Point of Sighs. When he’d been released, the tavern keeper had declined to take him back, and Rathe had taken the opportunity to place him into Caiazzo’s household just in case Caiazzo had been behind the missing children. He hadn’t been, or at least his involvement had been unintentional, but—Rathe seemed to have a knack for creating awkward situations, at least for other people.

He fastened his stock, not bothering with a fancy knot, and slipped from the alcove still in his shirtsleeves. The points were long gone, the garden empty, and he took the time to cut himself a couple of slices of bread and cheese. He couldn’t stay here, not if Rathe wasn’t going to give him an alibi—though, to be fair, neither of the options were likely to inspire a great deal of confidence—but there was also no point in leaving until he had a destination in mind. There had been woodcuts of him and Rathe after the midsummer rescue of the children; people still recognized him now and then, and the points would certainly have a decent description.

That meant he should probably warn Caiazzo that this exercise in cooperating with the points was not going entirely as anticipated. He stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth, and stooped to peer at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t shaved yet, and he wouldn’t; unshaven and with his hair loose, his clothes fastened carelessly, he might pass without notice. And he could cross to the north side of the river, make his way to Customs Point along the opposite bank. It would add an hour or two to the journey, but he wouldn’t have to cross the districts where he was best known.

He adjusted his hat to shadow his eyes, and let himself out of Rathe’s rooms. The courtyard was empty of people, though he could hear the clack of the weaver’s loom from the room by the gate, and her goat was grazing lazily on its tie. He shut the gate gently behind him, and started for the Hopes-Point Bridge.

The streets were growing busy, he saw with relief, women heading out on the business of the day, merchants to their shops and counting houses, servants bound for the early markets, even a sprinkling of gray-robed students heading home from a night in Point of Dreams. Eslingen let himself fall in behind one such group, still sleepily giggling to each other, and hoped to blend in with the crowd.

The pace slowed as they approached the foot of the bridge. That was unusual: Hopes-Point was broad enough to allow two carriages to pass side-by-side and still leave room for pedestrians, and Eslingen slowed his pace, pausing to consider the gem-like fruits laid out in a greengrocer’s tray. He slanted a glance up the street, and saw the cause of the delay. A pair of pointsmen stood at the entrance to the bridge, just where the road sloped up to meet the first of the shops that perched on the bridge itself. Eslingen swallowed a curse—of course Rathe’s people were good, and if Rathe was helping them—but surely he wouldn’t be. He smiled and shook his head at the watchful grocer, and turned back to the south.

The movement drew attention, as he’d feared it might, running counter to the majority of the crowd. He hunched his shoulders, trying to look shorter and older, but he could feel the eyes on him, scowls turning to curiosity as he kept pushing south.

“Hey!”

Eslingen glanced over his shoulder, saw one of the pointsmen stepping away from his place. He tried to look away again, as though it had been only casual curiosity, as though the shout meant nothing to him, but even as he turned his head, he saw the other pointsman lift his truncheon.

“Stop that man.”

Eslingen curbed himself sharply, looked around as though he had no idea to whom they referred. For a moment, he thought he’d bought enough time to get around the nearest corner, but then the second pointsman shouted again.

“That man, the one in the blue hat! Stop him!”

This time, people did turn, did stare, surprise turning to suspicion. Eslingen cursed once, and bolted, forcing his way through the crowd. Someone grabbed at his coat-tails, but he pulled free, ducking under the nose of a startled cart horse, darted down the far side of the street. A whistle shrilled behind him, and the raucous sound of a watchman’s rattle rose above the sudden hubbub, calling reinforcements.

Eslingen swore again, ducked blindly down the first side street, and reversed his course at the next crossroads, heading back into Point of Hopes. He didn’t know this part of the city as well as he knew Customs Point, didn’t dare risk the alleys for fear of being caught in a cul-de-sac. At least the whistles were receding, and he slowed his step, trying to become inconspicuous again, to blend into the thinning crowd.

In the mouth of an alley, he stopped to tie back his hair and consider his next move. Maybe the baths, he could discard his hat and coat there, acquire other in a different color—they wouldn’t fit well, but that was probably to the good. And then find a street that ran parallel to Customs Road, and somehow get across Point of Hopes and Point of Knives to reach Caiazzo’s house. It was just too bad this alley ended in a brick wall.

The whistles sounded again, close behind, and he broke into a trot, heading for the next intersection. Before he could reach it, a trio of pointsmen rounded the corner, truncheons drawn, and the leader pointed her at him.

“Stop right there, Eslingen.”

Eslingen lifted both hands in a conciliatory gesture, and took a careful step backward. “Sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong man—”

They weren’t buying it, and he could see why, remembered the leader from midsummer as surely as she remembered him. He turned on his heel, saw the original group coming up behind him. The wall that ended the alley was too high to climb, and there were no other outlets. His hand dropped to his knife, but he made himself let it go, lifted his hands in surrender. Surely Rathe had a plan—and if he didn’t, Eslingen had a few things he could say, and prove, that would make Rathe’s life just a miserable as his own.

“You’ll need to come with us,” the leader said. Eslingen couldn’t remember her name, but he knew he’d seen her more than once during the search for the missing children.

“What’s the charge?” he asked.

“Dame van Duiren claims you set on her last night,” the leader answered. “It’s assault for now.”

Eslingen refrained from saying that if he had attacked her, she would in fact be dead. “I was nowhere near her last night,” he said. “And I can prove it.”

“You’ll have your chance,” the leader answered. Another whistle sounded behind her, and a closed carriage drew up into the street. Eslingen suppressed a sigh. He’d hoped they might walk to Point of Hopes, that there might be a chance to make a break for it, but evidently they weren’t going to take any chances. One of the pointsmen held open the carriage door, and he climbed reluctantly into the scuffed interior. Another pointsman climbed in after him, followed by the leader, who stood in the door long enough to speak to the driver.

“Point of Knives, quick as you can.”

“Point of Knives?” Eslingen said.