Point of Knives (5 page)

“Let’s see,” he said, and set the little-captain on the polished stone. The dog turned in a rapid circle, then ran from shoe to shoe, looking up as if hoping one of them would be Old Steen. It treated Monteia no differently from van Duiren, though it barked once at Eslingen, then retreated to the shelter of Young Steen’s ankles. The captain picked it up, glaring at Monteia.

“What more do you need? He doesn’t know her. I doubt she even knows his name.”

“Steen,” van Duiren said, and the little-captain cocked his head, ears swiveling.

“Really?” Eslingen said, under his breath, and Rathe stepped back none too gently on his toe.

“It’s an easy guess,” Young Steen said.

Monteia shook her head. “Captain, if you can bring witnesses that your father was unmarried, I’d advise you to do so, and to pursue the matter in the courts. I don’t see that I have any choice but to turn Old Steen’s body over to Dame van Duiren. Subject, of course, to her paying the associated costs, as set out by the Chief Alchemist.”

“But not Grandad,” Young Steen said, and Monteia shook her head again.

“The claim passes from father to son, so there’s no question you’re his next-kinsman.”

Rathe glanced quickly at van Duiren, but saw no change in her expression. Her business was entirely with Old Steen, then, which raised the odds that Grandad’s death was unintentional.

“I’ll take that charge gladly,” Young Steen said. “And if she in any way defaults—I’ll stand the charges, Chief Point.”

“Duly noted,” Monteia said. “Do I take it you mean to contest the marriage?”

Young Steen nodded. “I do.”

“Then it’s very likely the alchemists will hold his belongings until there’s an order from the court,” Monteia said.

“You’re simply trying to drive up your fees,” van Duiren said. “No judge would place the claim of a motherless man above a lawful wife.”

“Lawful?” Young Steen’s voice rose, and out of the corner of his eye, Rathe saw Eslingen pluck at his sleeve. The captain subsided slightly, the dog growling for him, a rising rumble of sound.

“That’s for the court to decide,” Monteia repeated. “Dame, I’ll need one of the points to copy down the details of your papers.”

And that, Rathe knew, was his cue to get Young Steen out of the station so there wouldn’t be any more bloodshed in the streets. He turned toward him, but Eslingen already had a hand on Young Steen’s elbow, and was steering him toward the door. Eslingen looked over his shoulder as though Rathe had called him, and winked.
Trust me,
he mouthed, and then they were gone. Rathe stood for a moment staring after them. He did trust Eslingen, that was the problem, even though he knew it probably wasn’t safe. If only he hadn’t found Eslingen the place in Caiazzo’s household—but Eslingen had lost his previous post partly because of Rathe, and it had all seemed like a good idea at the time. And Eslingen had been a good companion during the hunt for the stolen children, always ready with a clever answer or an equally canny blow. And after—after it had been all too easy to fall into bed with him, and into a deepening friendship.

And this was definitely not the moment to be thinking about that. Old Steen’s belongings were still in a bundle in his workroom: better to see what was there, and copy what he could, before van Duiren pressed her claim.

Rathe poured himself another cup of the cooling tea, the early morning already beginning to wear on him, and closed the workroom door before he turned to the packet he’d been given at the dead-house. As Castera had said, it was clear that Old Steen hadn’t been robbed: the untied bundle held the dead man’s purse, still plump and clinking with coin, and his keys. Rathe set them aside for the moment, sorted quickly through the rest of the objects. It was the usual detritus of a working man’s pockets, tinder-box, tobacco pouch and pipe—a nice one, polished briar inlaid with silver—a set of lead dice, a gnawed-on stylus, a quarter of a broadsheet prophecy and a few more scraps of paper twisted into spills, a silver storm-horse charm and a couple of thick hard-baked biscuits stamped with a running dog. Treats for the little-captain, Rathe knew, and set them aside. He tipped his head to one side, considering what was left. It was all very ordinary, though he wondered if the stylus meant that Old Steen was in the habit of carrying a set of wax tablets. There were none among the effects. He made a note to ask, and picked up the tobacco pouch. There was something hard in it, only partly masked by the loose herb, and he undid the strings, opening the pouch to its widest extent. Nestled among the shreds of tobacco was a single iron key the size of his thumb.

Rathe lifted his eyebrows—not the usual place to keep a key, certainly—and gently shook off the last of the oily strands. It looked ordinary enough, browned iron with plain-cut wards—castle-cut, he amended, looking at it more closely, and that meant a better lock than average. He would bet this was part of what Old Steen had been killed for.

He reached into the pocket of his own coat, brought out the wax tablets he always carried. They were empty, the wax planed smooth for the day, and he pressed the key carefully into the left-hand side, taking an impression of each face. In the back of his mind, he could hear Eslingen’s voice, coolly amused—
you have unsuspected talents, Adjunct Point
—but put the thought aside. It was just as well to be able to make a copy of the keys, in case someone made Monteia give them up.

There was a knock at the door then, and he knotted the tobacco pouch closed, flipping the wrapping hastily over the various objects. “Yeah?”

Monteia pushed the door open, and Rathe relaxed slightly. “Hello, Chief.”

“I thought you might have the effects,” she said, and seated herself on the visitor’s stool. “Van Duiren’s gone to the dead-house, she’ll be back here inside the hour, wanting them.”

“Yeah,” Rathe said again, and met her eyes without apology. “I needed time to look things over.” He paused. “I thought you said the alchemists would keep them.”

“The marriage lines look valid, and Young Steen hasn’t yet filed a claim,” Monteia said. “I doubt they’ll argue.” She paused. “What have you got?”

“Not much,” Rathe answered. He spilled out the purse as he spoke, a handful of coins, mostly cooper demmings with a few rounds of silver among them, began counting as he spoke. “Pipe fittings, dice, dog-biscuit, his money and his keys.”

“Definitely not robbed,” Monteia said. “You said Grandad was searched?”

Rathe nodded. “There was nothing in his pockets, and purse and cap were missing. Maybe the killer thought Old Steen had given whatever it was she’s looking for to Grandad? I don’t know.” He looked down at the note from the dead-house. “All told, he had two demmings less a pillar here, so, yeah, we can say he wasn’t searched. That’s too much money to leave behind. Though he’s got a stylus here and no tablets, so I’ll need to ask around about that.”

“Common enough to have a stylus in the kit,” Monteia said. “I use mine to clean my pipe.” She reached across the desk, picked up the battered slip of bone to display the darkened tip. “Looks like Old Steen did the same.”

Rathe nodded. “That makes sense. Thanks, Chief.”

“Almost a pillar,” Monteia said. “Two weeks keeping, that is, for most of us. Do we know where he lodged?”

“Not yet.”

“I’d like to know,” she said. “And before van Duiren has a chance to muddy the waters.”

“You don’t seriously think she married him, do you?” Rathe asked.

Monteia shook her head. “If she did, then I’m a Regent. And you don’t see me sitting in All-Guilds, do you?”

“Then you wouldn’t have any objection if I took an impression of his keys?” Rathe asked.

Monteia hesitated. “We’ve no right,” she said at last. “And she’s the sort to claim the letter of the law.”

“It’s murder,” Rathe said, without much hope, and Monteia shook her head.

“I can’t say yes to it. I’m sorry, Nico.”

But she wasn’t saying no, either. Rathe nodded in perfect understanding, and Monteia pushed herself to her feet.

“When you’re done, I’ll put these in the station strongbox. And one thing more.”

Rathe gave her a wary look.

“I know you’re fond of Eslingen, but he’s Caiazzo’s man. You can’t trust him in this business.”

“He did us—the points and the city—good service this summer,” Rathe said.

“That was to save his own skin and Caiazzo’s,” Monteia said.

“I put him into Caiazzo’s service, remember,” Rathe said.

“So you did. And you’d better learn to live with it.” She paused. “Don’t force me to make it an order, Nico.”

“I’ll do my best, Chief,” Rathe said, and the door closed behind her.

He kept a block of beeswax in his cabinet for just this purpose, and set it to warm in the sun while he looked over the ring of keys. Monteia was wrong about Eslingen, he was sure of that, though he couldn’t have said precisely why. Or, rather, he could say it, could quote all the times during the search for the children that Eslingen had chosen their interests over Caiazzo’s, the way he’d risked arrest and injury and finally his life, but he knew that he would only sound besotted. And I’m not, he thought. Not besotted. Fond of him, friendly with him—gods, it was easy to slip into the habit of the summer, too easy to treat him as comrade and friend—and if he was honest with himself, yes, he could become besotted. Could even— He refused to utter the betraying verb, even in his own mind. Wanted him still, yes, he’d admit that much because half the station felt the same way: Eslingen was an extraordinarily handsome man, with his pale skin and black hair and his vivid blue eyes. Liked him, too, and that was the heart of the trouble. No matter how much he liked and trusted Eslingen, he couldn’t afford to give Caiazzo that much of an advantage. Monteia was right, he’d have to learn to live with it.

They were in the station courtyard before Young Steen jerked his arm free of Eslingen’s hand, and rounded on him with a glare.

“Not here,” Eslingen said, and the logic of that was enough to carry them through the station’s gate and out into the street.

“And who are you—”

“And not here, either,” Eslingen said, “not unless you want everyone in Point of Hopes to know your affairs.”

Steen scowled, but the point was unarguable. “Where, then? Because you and I have things to talk about, soldier.”

“Lieutenant,” Eslingen said, with a smile he didn’t feel. He didn’t really feel like claiming rank, either, but he suspected it was the best way to get Young Steen to follow quietly. “The Hare and Hawker?”

It was a tavern not far away, one that catered to travelers and therefore asked no questions. “I don’t have time for this,” Steen muttered, but nodded.

Eslingen steered them to a table in the corner, ordered tea and a cheese tart. Steen started to wave the potboy away, then visibly thought better of it and called for sausage and small beer.

“And an explanation,” he added, looking at Eslingen. “What exactly was your business with Dad, Lieutenant?”

“I’m Caiazzo’s knife,” Eslingen said. It was the catchall Astreianter term for bodyguard, hired thug, or blade for hire. “He had business with your father, and sent me to handle it.”

“What kind of business?” Steen’s glare sharpened again.

“Not what you’re thinking,” Eslingen answered. “Old Steen had a cargo he wanted to dispose of discreetly—my impression was it hadn’t paid the Queen’s taxes, though it wasn’t my place to know any details—and Caiazzo wanted to buy. I was to fetch a sample of the goods in exchange for a crown in silver.”

Young Steen swore under his breath. “So that’s—did Caiazzo tell you what the cargo was, Lieutenant?”

Eslingen shook his head. “He said I didn’t need to know.”

“He would.” Young Steen showed teeth in a distinctly feral smile. “Dad wasn’t here this summer, he was all the way south past the Outer Isles. He went to fetch his takings from three years past—gold, Lieutenant, coin of three realms, taken off the—wreck—of a Silklands hoy. A sea-chest full of gold, and none to claim it.”

And doubtless Old Steen had been responsible for that wreck,
Eslingen thought. He said, “The Queen takes her tithe of all gold, coin, nugget, ingot, or flakes and dust. It’s the royal metal, there’s a magistical link to her rule that has to be propitiated. Not to mention she’s sensitive about it after this past summer.” A crazed magist had stolen the city’s children to mine aurichalcum, queen’s-gold, that he intended to use to influence the succession and become the power behind Astreiant’s throne: the queen and her agents were still keeping a very close eye on the banks and traders.

“Yeah. But Dad didn’t know,” Steen said. “If he had, he’d have left it another season.”

And Caiazzo still needed gold, Eslingen thought, the pieces slotting into place at last. He’d lost his ready coin in the summer chaos, still had caravans to fund and less-legal businesses to support, and the last, in particular, dealt in cash, not letters of credit. Of course Caiazzo had jumped at the chance to change silver for gold, and of course Old Steen had been glad to take legal coin for untaxed, unworkable gold that he couldn’t easily explain….

“And now that miserable bitch is going to claim Dad’s goods,” Young Steen said. “The gold along with it.”