Point of Hopes (40 page)

“
I’d forgotten,” she said at last,
“that your mother was a binder.” She laid the knife down flat on
the table, and pushed it back across to Caiazzo. “You’ve kept it
well. She’d be pleased.” She looked at Eslingen, and he let the
pistol ease back into its place. “My apologies if I touched your
honor.” She leaned forward as Caiazzo reached for his knife, placed
her hand on his. “I do trust you, Hanselin, as I would my own
child. This business with the Ile’nord…” She shook her head. “If I
didn’t trust you, if I didn’t trust your judgment and acumen—well,
as you say, we wouldn’t be doing business together. I’ll send word
to you as soon as I hear anything.”

It was clearly a dismissal, and Eslingen glanced
curiously at Caiazzo. The trader rose, nodding. “And I’ll do the
same. But you know that’s of use only if they bring the gold.”

“
If they bring word only, Hanselin,
your autumn ventures are still safe. Your reputation is still more
than sound. One way or another, the money will be there for
you.”

“
Yes, but…” Caiazzo gave a grim
smile. “Then where will my reputation be? I appreciate it, dame. I
don’t want to take you up on your offer.”

“
Nevertheless, it stands.” The old
woman smiled back, widely this time, and Eslingen shivered. The
implication was clear enough even to him: if Caiazzo failed, she
would provide the capital, but at a price.

Caiazzo bowed again, his temper barely in check, and
stalked from the room. Eslingen followed hastily, and heard
Denizard shut the door again behind them. Caiazzo said nothing
until they were well clear of the Court of the Thirty-two Knives,
and had turned onto the street that sloped down to the landing.

“
I bet it stands,” he said at last.
“Nothing she’d like better than to get that far inside my business.
Well, it’s not going to happen—” He broke off, head going back like
a startled horse, black eyes fixing on something beyond the
landing. Eslingen reached automatically for his pistol, and Caiazzo
laughed aloud, looked up to the sky. “Gods, Bonfortune, it’s about
time the stars turned my way.”

Eslingen looked again, and saw another caravel,
larger than the one he’d seen before, making its way cautiously up
the river. Caiazzo’s red and gold pennant flew from its mast, and
the deck was piled high with cargo.

“
Aurien, by the Good Counsellor,”
Denizard said, sounding as startled as the trader, and Caiazzo
laughed again.

“
A half month early, thank
Bonfortune, and heavy laden. We’ll meet him, Aice, see what he’s
brought me. You, Eslingen—” He turned to face his knife, his whole
expression suddenly alive and excited. “Go to my counting house—do
you know where it is? Tailors’ Row, by the Red Style—tell Siramy
and Noan to meet me at the wharf. Then—” he grinned, gestured
expansively, “take the afternoon off.”

“
Yes, sir,” Eslingen said, and the
trader hurried toward the waiting boat.

Eslingen watched him go, suddenly aware that he had
been left on his own at the edges of the Court of the Thirty-two
Knives, and then, impatient, shook the thought away. The Tailors’
Row was well clear of the Court, back toward Point of Sighs; he
lifted a hand to the boat, saw Denizard wave in return, and then
turned west toward the Tailors’ Row.

It wasn’t a long walk to the counting house, a
narrow, three-story building tucked between two much larger
warehouses. He delivered his message to a clerk and then to Siramy
herself, watching her expression change from uncertainty to a
delight that hid—relief? He couldn’t be sure, and hid his own
misgivings behind an impassive face. Caiazzo was definitely short
of coin, that much was obvious, but why and what it meant was
anybody’s guess—except that it probably meant that the
long-distance trader was not involved with the missing children.
Rathe had been right about one thing: Caiazzo didn’t get involved
with anything that didn’t promise a hefty profit, and this venture
with the old woman, whatever it was, had certainly been intended to
provide decent funds. Except, of course, that it had clearly gone
wrong. Eslingen sighed, wondering if he should use his unexpected
freedom to find Rathe and let the pointsman know what had happened.
There would be less risk now than any other time, but he found
himself suddenly reluctant to betray Caiazzo’s interests. The man
was having enough troubles; the last thing Eslingen wanted to do
was to add to them. The two factors—and a harassed-looking clerk,
arms filled with tablets and a bound ledger—hurried past him toward
the river, and Eslingen turned toward the Rivermarket. Whatever
else he did, whether he contacted Rathe or not, he did have to buy
some new shirts. He could make his decision after he’d searched the
market for something decent.

The Rivermarket was less crowded than it had been
the other times he’d ventured into its confines. Probably most
people were shopping at the Midsummer Fair, he thought, and hoped
that would mean he would be able to strike a few bargains with the
secondhand clothes dealers. There was a woman who claimed contacts
at the queen’s court, who swore that she had the pickings of the
landames’ cast-offs, and he threaded his way through the confusion
until he found her stall. The clothes, some good, some much-mended
or threadbare, good only for a seamstress to take a pattern from
it, were piled every which way on a crude trestle table, watched by
the woman and a beetle-browed man whose knife was easily at the
legal limit. He was dividing his attention between the stock and a
thin girl a little younger than apprentice-age, and Eslingen
wondered just which one he’d been hired to watch. The man saw him
looking, and frowned; Eslingen met the stare with a bland smile,
and began sorting through the piled clothes, pulling out shirts.
Most were too worn to be of use, though one still had a modest band
of lace at the collar and cuffs, and he set that one aside to
examine more closely later. The lace was good quality; maybe, he
thought, he could pick it loose and find a seamstress to attach it
to a different garment. He dug deeper into the pile, found another
shirt that looked almost new, and spread it out to check for
damage. The linen was barely worn, the only sign of its provenance
a ripped hem—and that, he thought, holding it up to gauge the size,
he could even mend himself. It would be large, but not unwearable,
and he bundled it with the other, bracing himself to haggle.

“
Eslingen!”

It was Rathe’s voice, and Eslingen turned, not
knowing whether he was glad or sorry that the decision was taken
out of his hands. The pointsman had abandoned his jerkin and
truncheon, was wearing a plain half-coat open over shirt and
trousers, and he carried a basket loaded with what looked like the
makings of a decent dinner. Eslingen blinked at that—he had somehow
assumed that Rathe would have someone to do his housekeeping—and
nodded a greeting. “Rathe.”

“
I hope you’re doing well in your
new employment,” Rathe went on, the grey green eyes sweeping over
the other man’s clothes and the shirts he held in his
hands.

“
Well enough,” Eslingen answered,
and took a deep breath as the stall-keeper moved toward them. “I
need to talk to you, if you’ve got the time.”

Rathe nodded, without surprise. “Always. Can I buy
you a drink?”

“
I’m not sure that would be fully
politic,” Eslingen said, grimly, and Rathe grinned.

“
Maybe not, at that. New
clothes?”

Eslingen nodded, and the stall-keeper said, “Those
are from Her Majesty’s own court, good clothes that’ll stand a
second owner. And they don’t come cheap.”

Eslingen took a breath, irritated by the assumption,
and Rathe said, “From Her Majesty’s court, maybe, but by way of the
other Court.” He looked at Eslingen. “You wouldn’t credit the
trouble we have with laundry thieves.”

Eslingen grinned, and the woman said, “That’s not
true, or fair, I get my goods legitimately and you know it.”

“
And charge court prices for
clothes you bought from northriver merchants,” Rathe
answered.

It seemed to be a standing argument. Eslingen said
hastily, “How much?”

The woman darted a look at Rathe, then resolutely
turned her shoulder to him. “A snake and two seillings—and the lace
alone is worth that much.”

It probably was, Eslingen admitted, but pretended to
study the shirts a second time.

The woman crossed her arms. “That’s my only price,
Leaguer. Take it or leave it.”

“
I’ll take it,” Eslingen said, and
fumbled in his pocket for the necessary coins. The woman took them,
and Eslingen folded the shirts into a relatively discreet package.
“Shall we?”

Rathe nodded. “Where are you bound?”

“
I hadn’t decided. I was told to
take the afternoon off.”

“
You should see the fair, then,”
Rathe answered.

“
Actually, I had some business at
Temple Fair,” Eslingen said. “I’d like to see what the latest word
is on the clocks.”

“
Bad, that.”

“
And what do the points say it
was?” Eslingen asked.

“
The same as the university,” Rathe
answered. “I’ll walk you to the Hopes-point Bridge.”

“
Good enough,” Eslingen said,
accepting the rebuff.

They made their way through the market and climbed
the gentle slope to the Factors’ Walk in a surprisingly
companionable silence. At the base of the bridge, the Factors’ Walk
ended in a paved square where the low-flyers gathered between
fares. In the summer heat, the air smelled richly of manure and the
sour tang of old feed, but the fountain and trough at the center of
the space was surprisingly clean. Eslingen paused to scoop up a
drink in his cupped hands, disdaining the cup chained above the
spigot, and Rathe said, “So. You wanted to talk to me, you
said.”

Eslingen stopped himself from glancing around—there
would have been nothing more suspicious—and shook the water from
his palms. “Yes. I suppose so, anyway.”

He stopped there, not knowing where to begin, and
Rathe said, “Anything on the children?”

“
No. And I doubt there will be.”
Eslingen hesitated, resettling the shirts under his arm. “Caiazzo’s
having troubles, yes, but I don’t think it has anything to do with
the children—the opposite, in fact.” Quickly, he went through the
events of the past few days, from the caravan-master’s visit to the
meeting with the old woman to Caiazzo’s relief at the arrival of
the ship. “It seems to me,” he finished, “that if Caiazzo was
involved in all this, he’d have money in hand, not be seeking
it.”

Rathe tipped his head to one side, eyes fixed on
something in the middle distance. “Unless the business, whatever it
was, had gone wrong somehow.” He broke off, shaking his head.

Eslingen said, “If he’s acting for someone else,
which I think he’d have to be, from what I’ve heard, well, that
someone would have to be a fool, to keep Caiazzo short of coin. If
nothing else, it draws suspicion—as witness our conversation,
pointsman.”

Rathe grinned at that. “No, I dare say you’re right,
Eslingen. I wish to Sofia I knew what he was up to, though.”

Eslingen shook his head in turn. “Oh, no, that’s not
part of the bargain. The children only, thank you, Rathe.” He
smiled then. “I’m starting to enjoy my work.”

“
I was afraid you would,” Rathe
answered. “But, thanks, Eslingen. I appreciate this
much.”

Eslingen shrugged, unaccountably embarrassed. “It
matters,” he said. “These kids—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“It matters,” he said again, and turned away before the pointsman
could say anything more. He could feel Rathe’s gaze on him as he
climbed the steps to the bridge, but refused to look back. He had
done as much as he’d agreed to do; Rathe was repaid for his favor,
and that was an end to it.

Rathe watched him go, the blue coat soon lost among
the brightly dressed crowd on the bridge. He hoped the soldier was
right—and logically, he should be; if Caiazzo were involved, he
should have coin to spare, not be scrambling to outfit his
caravans, or forced into dealings with mysterious old women. Rathe
had a shrewd idea of who she was—Catarin Isart was a blood
descendant of the Chief of the Thirty-two Knives, and had long been
rumored to have dealings with Caiazzo—and he didn’t envy the
long-distance trader if ever she did get a finger into his
business. But Isart would deal in children if the price was right,
and that meant, he acknowledged silently, that a trip of his own to
the court was in order. He had contacts there, people he couldn’t
quite call friends, but on whom he could rely, at least up to a
point. And for once the job in hand would work to his advantage: no
one, not even the sharpest of knives, would dare, or want, to
protect the child-thief. But first, he decided, he would go back by
Point of Hopes, and tell Monteia where he was going. There was no
point in taking chances with the court and its denizens.

It was late in the afternoon by the time he reached
the court, crossing the rickety bridge that spanned one of the
nastier gutters running down to the Sier. He let his blade show
under his open half-coat, knowing he was being watched, and
knowing, too, that the watchers would assume a second, hidden
weapon, or maybe more than one. He followed the main path through
the warrens, counting intersections, turned at the fifth, beneath a
sign that had once been a purple fish, but was now fading to an
unlovely puce. The building he was looking for stood three doors
further on, its door sagging from rusting hinges. It had been part
of the original mansion, but the stones were beginning to sag, the
mortar crumbling from between them, the frames of the windows and
the wooden sill starting to rot. He grimaced, thinking of the floor
beams, and stepped back to glance up to the second story windows. A
lantern stood in the center of the three, unlit but very visible,
and he smiled, and pushed open the main door. The stairs looked as
rotten as the window frames, though he knew at least some of the
dilapidation was designed to trap the unwary, and he stepped
carefully, testing each step before committing his weight to it.
Several of the boards creaked alarmingly, and one cracked sharply,
but he reached the second floor without mishap, and stepped onto a
landing that looked a good deal sturdier than anything else in the
building. There was only one door, but before he could raise his
hand to know, it was pulled open. A woman stood there, leather
bodice laced over a sleeveless shift, skirts kilted to her knees.
She was holding a knife several inches longer than the one Rathe
carried, and he lifted his hands away from his side.