Point of Knives (8 page)

Point of Hopes was quiet, drowsing in the morning sun, the stack of papers on the duty point’s table barely an inch high. Which probably wasn’t the only reason for his good mood, Rathe allowed, but it was as good an excuse as any. He had left Eslingen just stirring, and would meet him mid-afternoon to compare notes. In the meantime, he had researches of his own to pursue.

His first order of business was to draft a note to Istre b’Estorr, the University necromancer who had been such a help during the search for the children. As he’d said to Eslingen, it didn’t seem likely that b’Estorr would know a great deal about metallurgy himself, but he would certainly know who to ask. He dispatched a runner with the note, and settled to the stack of papers on his desk.

Monteia had left him a copy of the writ left by Caiazzo’s advocate, and Rathe read through it with new appreciation for Caiazzo’s ability to hire the best. Through his advocate, Caiazzo claimed Old Steen owed him a debt—monies invested in a side venture, nothing to do with Old Steen’s ostensible employers, the owners of the ship he captained—and named a sum high enough to entangle everything Old Steen owned. At worst, if the claim was allowed, he could demand that all Old Steen’s effects be dragged into the nearest court and valued, and either sold outright to pay the debts, or Dame van Duiren could pay that value to redeem them. A sensible woman would be looking for some deal, and he couldn’t help a pang of disappointment. It would be a pity if his new collaboration with Eslingen were to end so quickly.

He tapped on Monteia’s door, and pushed it open. “Thanks for giving me the writ copy,” he said. “Is she bargaining?”

Monteia looked up from the daybook. “She is not. She denies the debt, and claims it was contracted without her approval as his wife, so it doesn’t stand.”

Rathe whistled softly. “That’s—courageous.”

“Or stupid,” Monteia said. “Lunele will eat her alive.”

Or there was something in Old Steen’s effects that van Duiren couldn’t afford to let out of her sight. And that something was presumably the location of Old Steen’s untaxed gold. Or maybe the gold itself? No, she still had to be searching, or she could simply hand over anything that wasn’t relevant, and go collect the gold while Caiazzo sorted through the mess. “And have her advocate for dessert,” Rathe said, and was pleased to draw a smile.

“Just so.” Monteia frowned at the nib of her pen. “Any luck with your soldier? No, wait, let me rephrase that. Has he been of any help?”

Rathe’s cheeks were hot, but he answered steadily. “Some. I’ve sent him off to talk to Young Steen, on the theory he might hear more honest answers if a pointsman wasn’t lurking in the background.”

“Makes sense,” Monteia said. “In that case, I’d take it kindly if you’d have a word with Dame Lulli. She’s mightily distressed by Grandad’s death, and you did say you would.”

Rathe nodded. It had to be done, and there was nothing more pressing until b’Estorr replied. “I’ll do that,” he said, and let the door close before Monteia could make any more remarks.

He made his way through the now-bustling streets to Dame Lulli’s house. It was hard by Cockerel Row, the street that marked the unofficial boundary of Point of Knives, and he wondered again if Mirremay had her fingers in the business. He wouldn’t put it past her, not with the money she’d laid out to get the post—but then, she wasn’t stupid, either, and she had to know that the Surintendant of Points was just waiting for her to put a foot wrong. It was probably just that most of the city’s criminal business was done in Point of Knives, but he hated coincidences.

Dame Lulli’s maid admitted him to the house almost before he’d said his name, and led him into the better of the two front parlors. It was over-decorated, carved paneling warring with old-fashioned tapestries—Oriane and the Sea-bull, the naked goddess with her back turned and one arm draped over the bull’s back, the bull nuzzling her happily—and the tall stove was painted with more mythological scenes. In the noontime warmth, it was unlit, and the half-open window let in a smell of other people’s cooking. The maid returned with a pitcher of lemon-water and a plate of small cakes, and a moment later, Dame Lulli made her entrance. She had stopped to change her clothes, or at least to rid herself of a housewife’s apron and hood, was neat and prosperous in a russet skirt and bodice, lace showing at neck and sleeves. Eslingen would know the cost to a demming, Rathe thought, and whether it was Guild work or a homelier makeshift; he himself could only note that it was small and delicate and suited the dress.

“Adjunct Point,” she said, and settled herself in the carved chair opposite him. “Thank you for making time to see me.”

“I’d have come sooner,” Rathe said, “except that we’ve been dealing with a second death as well.”

“I’d heard a rumor,” Lulli said. “Old Steen killed, too?”

Rathe nodded. “The same night, and probably by the same hand.”

Lulli sighed. “I’d hoped it wasn’t true. What can I tell you, Adjunct Point?”

“I expect Baiart already asked most of my questions,” Rathe said. “But I would take it kindly if you’d go through it with me again.”

“Of course,” she said, and drew herself up like a noblewoman.

As he’d expected, there wasn’t much new to learn. As far as Lulli knew, Grandad had no enemies: he paid his bills on time, he lived quietly in a room behind the kitchen, he didn’t even run a tab at the neighborhood tavern.

“Of course, people bought him drinks for the stories,” she said. “But when they didn’t, if it was quiet, he could pay his own shot.” She hesitated. “I don’t think all of them were stories, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe grinned in spite of himself, thinking of mermaids, and she smiled back.

“Well, no, not those. But I do believe he was a summer-sailor, and I believe he funded that son of his out of what he’d taken.”

“You sound as though you had cause to dislike Old Steen,” Rathe said.

“Not cause,” Lulli said, scrupulously. “No cause at all. But I didn’t like him, Adjunct Point. He was a troublemaker, the sly kind—the sort who eggs on another boy to do something bad, and never gets beaten himself. I was always glad when he was at sea.” She shook her head. “But Grandad was always happy to see him, foolishly so, I’d have said. If it was just Grandad dead, I’d tell you to check Old Steen’s books and see if he’d come into money.”

That was something Rathe hadn’t considered, though on the face of it, it seemed unlikely. Grandad wasn’t the sort to keep a crossbow when he could afford a pistol or a knife. “I don’t suppose he owned a crossbow?”

Lulli shook her head. “No. Nothing like that. He had a knife, of course, but that’s gone.”

She’d been through his things, of course, under Baiart’s supervision. “And nothing else was missing?”

“The cap from his head,” she began, and someone knocked heavily at the front door.

“Open to the law!”

“What in Heira’s name?” Lulli rose to her feet, and Rathe copied her. He heard the maid’s footsteps in the hall, and then the sound of the door opening.

“What’s the matter—”

“A writ in the Queen’s name,” a man’s voice said. “To seize the property of one Grandad Steen for his heir.”

“Oh, no, they don’t,” Lulli said, grimly, and swept from the parlor.

Rathe followed, one hand on the truncheon beneath his coat. It was a badge of office as well as a weapon; he hoped he would only need the former. The maid was pressed back with the door, and two tall men in leather jerkins had forced their way onto the top step.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Lulli demanded, and the foremost man swept his cap on and off again.

“Writ of seizure, dame. You might as well let us in, there’s no denying us.”

“Let me see that writ,” Lulli said, and the leader held it out, but pulled it back when she would have taken it.

“No, no, dame, I’m not letting you rip it up and claim there never was such a paper.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lulli snapped. “Let me see it.”

“Let us in first,” the leader said, and gave the door another hard shove. The maid squeaked and slid backward on the polished floor, and Rathe decided it had gone far enough.

“What’s this, then?”

“No business of yours,” the second man rumbled, and the leader gave him an assessing look.

“It’s a matter for your mistress, not yourself.”

Rathe sighed theatrically, and let his coat fall open. “But a royal writ is very much my business. What’s your authority?”

“A royal writ is royal authority,” the leader answered, but his voice was fractionally less certain than his words.

“Let me see it,” Rathe said. “And don’t tell me I’ll rip it up.”

The leader handed it across, and Rathe scanned the form. As he’d suspected, it was a bailiff’s writ, engrossed with several large but unimportant advocate’s seals as well as the royal stamp, and he shook his head. “Mind you, I’m tempted, seeing as how this is a bailiff’s writ, which is only by a generous stretch a royal document. And it’s not a writ of seizure, either. It’s a writ of destraint, and it only obliges you, dame, to hold Grandad’s possessions until the courts decide who his heir actually is.” He handed it back to the leader, keeping his free hand close to his truncheon. It would be a bad fight, bad odds, but he thought he could bluff them back. “Who’s your principal? Someone’s sent you on a wild goose chase.”

“I can’t name her, pointsman, you know that,” the leader said. He glanced over his shoulder, seemed to read something in the other man’s eyes, and took a step back. “Your pardon, dame. But you are required to keep the property intact and inviolate.”

“I’d do that for my own honor,” Lulli snapped. “And now I’ll have the points seal his room, and no one can go in or out until the matter’s settled.”

“An excellent idea,” Rathe said. “That should satisfy your principal.”

The leader nodded slowly. “I’ll give her that word, then.”

“One thing,” Rathe said. “What points station signed this?”

The leader hesitated. “Point of Knives.”

Rathe sighed. It was no more than he’d expected, but it was one more complication. “Right. You’ve earned your fee.”

The second man peeled himself reluctantly from the door frame, and backed away. The leader followed him, and managed a deliberately too-low bow before he turned away. The maid slammed the door, turning the night locks with trembling hands, and Dame Lulli gathered her into an embrace.

“They’re gone,” she said. “They’re gone and all’s well.” Her eyes met Rathe’s over the girl’s head, and he nodded.

“I’ll seal the door,” he said, “if you have wax I can use. And—just for your own peace of mind—does your knife work days?.”

He hadn’t wanted to frighten the maid further by being more direct, and was pleased when Lulli nodded. “He will for this.”

It was the work of only a few minutes to spread a ragged circle of wax across the shutters and press the head of his truncheon, heavy with the royal seal, into the soft surface. He did the same with the door, covering the lock, but waited until Lulli’s watchman arrived before he left. In the street, he squinted at the nearest tower clock—Point of Knives, stubbornly five minutes out of step with the rest of the city—trying to decide if it was too early to meet Eslingen. It was earlier than he’d intended, and he supposed he could talk to Mirremay himself— He allowed himself a crooked grin. No, he was not going to go into Point of Knives without Eslingen at his back.

Eslingen picked his way along the riverfront, past the long low barns that were the rope-walks and the taller warehouses that lined the river’s edge. The masts of the ships docked further south along the river’s edge rose above the russet-tiled roofs of the warehouses, black needles against the brilliant autumn sky. He threaded his way along the Factors’ Walk and crossed onto the docks proper, searching for the flag bearing a woman with a scepter that was the house-mark of the
Soueraine of Bedarres
. Since joining Caiazzo’s service, he’d spent a fair amount of time on the docks, but he hadn’t managed to lose the landsman’s sense of unease around the river’s deep water and swift currents. The high hulls of the ships that carried Astreiant’s trade to the edges of the world seemed little protection against the uneasy depths. He told himself it was just reasonable caution, his stars being bad for water, but he couldn’t quite rid himself of the sense that the boards were shifting under him as he made his way onto the quay where the
Soueraine
was docked. Laughing gulls wheeled overhead, diving for scraps off the end of the pier; the air smelled of damp and tar and spices and other things he couldn’t identify.

The
Soueraine
was smaller than he’d expected, with a sharply raked bow and a pair of the scrolled brass cannon they called chasers tucked up beside the anchor ports. They weren’t defensive weapons, and Eslingen gave them a sour glance. He’d had chasers turned on him before, in a fight on the bleak coast north of Altheim, and he hadn’t liked it one bit. The
Soueraine
and her captain weren’t trying very hard to hide that they were summer-sailors.

He stopped at the base of the gangway, lifting a hand to shade his eyes. “Permission to come aboard?”

For a long moment, there was no answer, but at last a tousled head appeared above the rail. “What’s your business?”