Point of Hopes (28 page)

Rathe stirred at that, but said nothing. Even so,
Monteia gave him a minatory look, and Eslingen wondered what wasn’t
being said. He knew that the points were only an occasional
presence on the streets and in the markets, mostly when there was
trouble expected; this didn’t seem to be anything out of the
ordinary. But then, he added silently, nothing was ordinary right
now, not with the children missing.

Devynck said, “Thanks, Tersennes, I appreciate what
you’re doing for us. There is one other thing, though—two, really.”
Monteia spread her hands in silent invitation, and Devynck plunged
ahead. “First, my caliver out there. It’s loaded and I don’t want
to ruin the barrel trying to draw it, not to mention the other
hazards. So can I fire it off in your yard?”

“
Gods,” Monteia said but nodded.
“What’s the other?” Devynck jerked her head toward Eslingen.
“Philip here—being a stranger to Astreiant and obviously not fully
aware of its laws—”

“
Of course,” Rathe murmured with a
grin, but softly enough that the Leaguer woman could ignore
him.

“—
has a pistol of his own in my
house. Under the circumstances, rather than give it up, I’d like to
post bond for him.”

Monteia shook her head sighing. “And I can’t say
that’s unreasonable, either. It won’t come cheap, though, Aagte,
not with that monster you already keep.”

“
I’m prepared to pay.” Devynck
reached through the slit in her outer skirt, produced a pocket that
made a dull clank when she set it on the worktable. “There’s two
pillars there, in silver.”

Monteia made a face, but nodded. “I’ll have the bond
drawn up—Nico, fetch the scrivener, will you? And in the meantime,
you can fire off that gun of yours.”

The preparations for firing the caliver were almost
more elaborate than for writing the bond. Eslingen lounged against
the doorpost of the station, trying unsuccessfully to hide his grin
as a pointswoman brought out a red and black pennant and hung it
from the staff above the gatehouse. The duty pointsman recorded the
event in the station’s daybook, and Monteia and Rathe countersigned
the entry, as did Devynck. Rathe looked up then.

“
Eslingen? We need another
witness.”

“
What am I witnessing to?” Eslingen
asked but went back into the station.

“
That you know Devynck, that you
know the gun’s loaded that we’ve posted the flag—the usual.” Rathe
grinned. “Not like Coindarel’s Dragons, I dare say.”

“
We had more of this than you’d
think,” Eslingen answered and scrawled his name below Devynck’s. It
did remind him of his time in the royal regiments, actually; there
had been the same insistence on signatures and countersignatures
for everything from drawing powder to receiving pay. It had made it
harder for the officers to cheat their men, but not impossible, and
he suspected that the same was true in civilian life.

“
Right, then,” Monteia said. “Let’s
get on with it.”

Eslingen followed her and the others out into the
yard, and saw with some amusement that the thin girl and half a
dozen other children had gathered at the stable doors. Most of
those would be the station’s runners—a couple even looked old
enough to be genuinely apprentices—but he could see more children
peering in through the gatehouse. Monteia smiled, seeing them, but
nodded to the pointswoman.

“
Fetch a candle.”

The woman did as she was told, and Devynck carefully
lit the length of slow match she had carried under her hat. She
fitted it deftly into the serpentine, tightened the screw, primed
the pan, and then looked around. “I’m ready here.”

“
Go ahead,” Monteia answered, and
behind her Eslingen saw several of the runners cover their
ears.

Devynck lifted the caliver to her shoulder, aimed
directly into the sky, and pulled the trigger. There was a puff of
smoke as the priming powder flashed and then, a moment later, the
caliver fired, belching a cloud of smoke. One of the children
outside the gatehouse shrieked, and most of the runners jumped;
Devynck ignored them, lowered the caliver, and freed the match from
the lock. She ground out the coal under her shoe, and only then
looked at Monteia.

“
That’s cleared it.”

“
One would hope,” Rathe murmured,
and Monteia frowned at him.

“
Right. Is the bond
ready?”

“
I’ll see.” Rathe disappeared into
the points station, to reappear a moment later in the doorway
holding a sheet of paper, which he waved gently in the air to dry
the ink. “Done. Just needs your signature and seal.”

Monteia nodded, and went back inside. Eslingen
looked at Devynck, who was methodically checking over her weapon.
Behind her, the neighborhood children were dispersing, only a few
still gawking from the shelter of the gatehouse. The runners, too,
had vanished back into the shelter of the stables, and he could
hear voices raised in shrill debate, apparently about the power and
provenance of the gun.

“
Here you are,” Rathe said, from
behind him. “Careful, the wax is still soft.”

Eslingen took the paper, scanning the scrivener’s
tidy, impersonal hand, and Monteia’s spiky scrawl at the base.
Rathe hadn’t signed it, and he was momentarily disappointed; he
shook the feeling away, and folded the sheet cautiously, written
side out. The seal carried the same tower and monogram that topped
the pointsmen’s truncheons. “Thanks.”

“
And for Astree’s sake, the next
time there’s trouble, send to us.”

“
Have you ever tried to go against
her?” Eslingen asked, and tilted his head toward Devynck, just
sliding her caliver back into its sleeve.

Rathe smiled, the expression crooked. “I understand.
I’ll probably be in this afternoon, to see the damage—just so you
don’t worry when you see me coming.”

“
I’ll try not to,” Eslingen
answered, and turned away.

They made their way back to the Old Brown Dog as
uneventfully as they’d left, but as they turned down the side
street that led to the inn’s door, Devynck swore under her breath.
Eslingen glanced around quickly, saw nothing on the street behind
them, and only then recognized that the young man sitting on the
bench outside the door was wearing a butcher’s badge in his flat
cap. He met Devynck’s stare defiantly, but said nothing. Devynck
swore again, and stalked past him into the inn.

Inside, Adriana was beside the bar, Loret and Hulet
to either side. She whirled as the door opened, scowling, relaxed
slightly as she saw who it was.

“
Mother! I thought it was that
Yvor.”

“
What in Areton’s name is going
on?” Devynck asked, and unslung her caliver with a movement that
suggested she would prefer it to be unsheathed and
loaded.

“
You saw Yvor outside,” Adriana
answered. “He and, oh, three or four of his friends came here, said
they wanted to drink. I told them we weren’t open yet, and he said
he’d wait.” She shook her head, looking suddenly miserable. “I
thought he was a friend, at least.”

“
Areton’s balls,” Devynck said. She
looked at the two waiters, then at Eslingen. “Did they say anything
else?”

“
They just said they wanted beer,”
Adriana said. She seemed suddenly to droop, her stiff shoulders
collapsing. “Maybe I’m overreacting, but after last
night….”

Devynck sucked air through her teeth, frowning. “The
gods know, I don’t want to give them an excuse to cause us more
trouble, but I can’t think they want to drink here for good
purpose.”

“
You should tell Monteia,” Eslingen
said.

Devynck stared at him. “Tell her what, my neighbors
want to buy my beer?”

“
They made Adriana nervous,”
Eslingen answered. “She’s not stupid or a coward and none of us
think they’re here just to drink.” Hulet nodded at that, but said
nothing.

Devynck hesitated for a moment longer, then sighed.
“All right. Loret, run to Point of Hopes—go out the back—and tell
the chief point or Rathe exactly what’s happened. Tell her I’m
concerned after last night, and I don’t want there to be any
misunderstandings.”

“
Yes, ma’am.” Loret nodded and
headed out the garden door.

“
You, Philip,” Devynck went on,
“can tell young Yvor that we won’t open until second sunrise today,
thanks to the damage. If he and his friends want to drink then,
well, their coin is good to me. But I won’t tolerate any trouble,
any more than I usually do.”

Eslingen nodded and stepped back out into the dusty
street. The young man Yvor was still sitting on the bench, but he
looked up warily as the door opened.

“
What’s the matter, aren’t we good
enough to drink here?”

“
Mistress Devynck says we won’t be
open until the second sunrise,” Eslingen repeated deliberately.
“It’s the damage to the windows, you understand.”

The young man had the grace to look fleetingly
abashed at that, but his wide mouth firmed almost at once into a
stern pout. “And then?”

Eslingen eyed him without favor. “Then your money’s
as good as any, I suppose. I take it this is your half-day,
then?”

Yvor’s hand started toward the badge in his cap, but
he stopped himself almost instantly. “And if it is?”

“
I was wondering how you had the
leisure to drink so early,” Eslingen answered.

“
That’s hardly your business,
Leaguer.”

“
Nothing about you is my business,”
Eslingen agreed. “Until you make it so.” He went back into the inn
without waiting for the younger man to answer.

Devynck opened her taps a little after noon, as she
had promised and equally as promised the butchers’ journeymen
appeared. The first group—Yvor and a pair of younger friends—bought
a pitcher of beer and drank it as slowly as they could; when they
left, another trio appeared and then a third. A pointswoman arrived
as well, dusty in her leather jerkin. She bought a drink herself,
watching them, but admitted there was nothing she could do as long
as they didn’t make trouble.

“
They’re watching me, damn them,”
Devynck said fiercely, and gestured for Eslingen to close the door
of her counting room behind him. “They’re watching me, and I know
it, and there’s damn all I can do about it.”

“
Kick them out,” Eslingen
said.

“
Don’t be stupid,” Devynck snapped.
“They’re just waiting for me to try it. No, I can’t be rid of them
unless I close completely, not without provoking the trouble I want
to prevent.”

“
So maybe you should close,”
Eslingen said. He held up his hand to forestall Devynck’s angry
curse. “You haven’t been doing much business the last few nights,
it might be safer—smarter—to close for a few days and see if it
doesn’t blow over.”

Devynck shook her head. “I will see them in hell and
me with them before I let them bully me.”

And that, Eslingen thought, is that. He lifted both
hands in surrender. “You’re the boss,” he said and went back out
into the main room. The journeymen—five of them, this time, and a
different group—were still there, and he smiled brightly at them as
he settled himself at his usual table. He reached for the stack of
broadsheets, but couldn’t seem to concentrate on the printed
letters. He could hear snatches of the young men’s conversations,
animadversions against Leaguers and soldiers and child-thieves,
suspected he was meant to hear, and met their glares with the same
blank smile. They finished their first pitcher, and, after a
muttered consultation and much searching of pockets, the youngest
of the group got up and went to the bar with the empty jug. Hulet
refilled it, narrow-eyed and sullen; the journeyman—he was little
more than a boy, really—glared back, but had the sense to say
nothing. As he returned to the table, a voice rose above the
rest.

“—
points searched the place, didn’t
find them.”

Eslingen’s attention sharpened at that, though he
didn’t move. Was someone going to make the commonsense argument at
last? he wondered, and sighed almost inaudibly as a big man, fair
as a Leaguer, shook his blond head.

“
They were well fee’d not to find
them, that’s all. They’re in it as deep as anyone—and that’s what
comes of giving ordinary folk that kind of power.”

The oldest of the group leaned forward and said
something, and the voices quieted again. Eslingen let himself
relax, picked up another broadsheet at random, but it was no more
successful than any of the others. He made himself read through it,
however, all fifteen lines of obscure verse—the poet-astrologer was
obviously a Demean in her sentiments—but couldn’t tell whether the
oblique intention was to blame foreigners or the city’s regents.
Not that it mattered, anyway, he added silently, and set the sheet
aside. What mattered was what the butchers on the Knives Road
believed, and they’d made that all too clear already.

The main door opened then, letting in a wedge of the
doubled afternoon sunlight, and Rathe made his way into the bar. He
was barely recognizable as a pointsman, his jerkin scarred and
worn, the truncheon almost out of sight under its skirts, and one
of the journeyman started to smile at him before he recognized what
he was. The smile vanished then, and he turned his back
ostentatiously. Rathe’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing
directly, and came across the room to lean on Eslingen’s table.

“
I’ll want to talk with you after
I’m done with Devynck,” he said, and Eslingen nodded, wondering
what was going on. “There’s been a nasty bit of damage here, and to
real property,” the pointsman went on, lifting his voice to carry
to the young men at the other table. “That’ll be an expensive
point, when we catch who did it.”