Point of Knives (10 page)

“So far,” Eslingen said.

“There’s a cheery thought,” Rathe said. “Yeah, so far. And I’m wondering—I know that aurichalcum, queen’s gold, it’s magistically pure, and so it has power. That’s why the queen keeps possession of it herself, or doles it out to trusted associates.”

“Well,” b’Estorr began, and stopped at Rathe’s look. “Well, yes. That’s the theory.”

“I know there’s a certain amount of license given to the University, and I know there’s some queen’s gold circulating illegally,” Rathe said. “That’s not what I’m interested in. This missing gold, being untaxed—I wondered whether it had any similar properties?”

“Now there’s an interesting question,” b’Estorr said. “Technically—well, no, that’s not really true. All coin is bound to the realm by the design on its face, Chenedolle’s coin to Chenedolle, Chadron’s to Chadron, the League’s to their individual cities, and so on. Foreign coin ought to be inherently somewhat unstable, and I assume that the tax and the tax mark is intended to bind it somehow, but I don’t really know. I don’t generally use royal metals in my work.”

“Who does, then?” Rathe asked. “And who can tell me about the taxes?”

“You want one of the Fellows,” b’Estorr said. “The Royal Fellows. They’re in charge of metallurgy and related arts. And of all of them—Caillavet Vair is your best bet.”

“All right,” Rathe said, doubtfully, and b’Estorr smiled.

“You’ll like her, Nico. She’s very like you.”

Vair did not live in the University precinct, but further north, where the city’s buildings thinned out to make room for larger houses. It was a long walk, outside the usual range of the city’s low-flyers, but a pleasant one, the afternoon sun dipping into the west, the waning light gilding the dusty streets. The trees were changing here, too, green giving way to gold and russet-brown, and as they made their way into the wealthier neighborhoods, where the minor nobility mingled with the most successful merchants, the air had the heady smell of turned loam and the whiff of burning leaves. Rathe opened the front of his jerkin, enjoying the warmth, and saw that Eslingen was smiling.

“What?” Rathe asked.

Eslingen tipped his head to one side. The brim of his hat shaded his face, but couldn’t hide the mischief in his expression. “You know, this Mistress Vair—she doesn’t know we’re coming.”

“She does,” Rathe said. He knew where this was going. “Istre sent a runner.”

“Yes, but she doesn’t know when we’ll get there.” Eslingen nodded to their right, where a painted banner stirred in the lazy breeze. It marked the entrance to a wine bower, one of the garden establishments that flourished through the long summer. There would be musicians and dancing in the evenings, and the clock round there were private rooms, screened by curtains of flowering vines. Rathe shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Business first.”

Eslingen laughed. “What about after?”

“After?” Rathe grinned. “As long as you’re paying. I’m a poor pointsman, Philip. You’re in private service.”

“I’d count it coin well spent,” Eslingen answered, not quite lightly enough, and Rathe looked away. That was the skeleton at the feast, the certain knowledge that they’d have to part when the job was over. And maybe we won’t, he thought. As long as we’re discreet, as long as we’re careful not to mix our respective businesses—but even if they could manage it, no one would believe he was unaffected. Caiazzo could fee a pointsman with other things than coin. Maybe he could persuade Eslingen to leave Caiazzo’s service, could loan him the coin to keep him over the winter—better still, let him stay the winter, there was room enough, though there was no telling if Eslingen would be willing to accept that great a favor. Or if it would be wise—they might not suit that well, after all, and then where would they be?

Rathe shook the thought away, and managed a quick smile. “It’s your money, Lieutenant.”

Vair’s house lay just at the edge of the suburbs, where the houses were separated by fields where cattle grazed, and they had to step from the road to make way for an ox-drawn wain piled high with hay. It was a long, low building that looked as though it might have been a barn or a threshing house before the city came to meet it—perhaps belonging to the stone house a little further up the road, it had the look of a manor. It was not the sort of place Rathe would have expected to find a Royal Fellow—they generally lived in more state than this—but perhaps Vair needed space for a workshop. The girl who answered the door admitted that Maseigne was at home, and led them into a sun-washed parlor. The room was nicely furnished, a pleasant mix of old and new, but the floors were bare stone.

“Maseigne,” Eslingen murmured. “Do you think she deserves the title?”

Rathe glanced around the room again, gauging the quality of the furniture. There was a crest carved into the back of one tall chair, though he didn’t recognize the design, and same crest appeared on a set of silver-bound faience plates that stood in a tall cabinet. “I’m beginning to think she might.”

The maidservant reappeared, and dropped the barest of curtsies. “Maseigne will see you. If you’ll come with me?”

“Of course,” Rathe said.

She led them down a short hall that ran the width of the narrow house, and emerged into an old-fashioned solar, its long windows looking out into a walled formal garden, its late-blooming flowers severely confined to stone-walled beds. It was a style Rathe had never much favored, but it fitted with the antique feeling of the house. Vair herself sat in a patch of sun between the windows, her back to them and her face in shadow.

“The pointsmen, Maseigne,” the girl announced, and withdrew, closing the door gently behind her.

Rathe bowed, aware that Eslingen’s gesture was more elegant, and came on into the room. Now he could see why the floors were bare, and why the garden was so formally tended: Caillavet Vair sat in a wheeled chair, the skirts of her gray gown folded around her like a blanket. Her hands were free of both rings and paint, but the Fellows’ collar across her shoulders was jewel enough.

“Adjunct Point Rathe and Lieutenant Eslingen,” she said. “Istre b’Estorr says I should assist you.”

Her tone was neutral, if anything merely idly curious, and Rathe gave her a sharp look. It was never wise to underestimate any member of the University, and she was clearly no exception.

“That’s right,” he said. “I—we—are looking for information about the royal metals and how they work. Gold in particular.”

“I would have thought you’d learned all you needed to know about that this summer,” she said, with a fleeting smile. “Please, be seated.” She waved to the tambours that stood against the wall.

“Thank you, Maseigne,” Eslingen murmured, and pulled two of them closer to her chair.

“I know more than I did about aurichalcum,” Rathe said, “but not much at all about ordinary gold, at least not in a magistical sense. Whether it can be used in the same ways as aurichalcum, for example.”

Vair tipped her head to one side. Her hair was confined by a lace cap and a strand of pearls, with a single larger pearl at the center parting of her hair. “I could spend most of the afternoon sharing a great deal of interesting but possibly irrelevant information, or you could tell me what you really need to know.”

Rathe hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to rouse suspicions about Caiazzo among the Royal Fellows, but he didn’t see that he had a choice. “All right, Maseigne,” he said. “But there’s a good chance I might miss the right question, not knowing enough about the subject.”

Vair smiled. “I expect we can resolve that, Adjunct Point, if and when the problem should arise.”

“All right,” Rathe said again. “As I said, it’s about gold—a chest of gold smuggled ashore, we think, by a summer-sailor. The chest has gone missing, and there are several interested parties, but my immediate concern is whether foreign gold, untaxed gold, has any special value to a magist.”

Vair grinned. “That’s a much disputed question. Ask any five Fellows, and you’ll get seven answers.” She sobered instantly. “But forgive me. I’m sure that if Istre sent you to me, it’s not a matter for academic jokes.”

“Sadly, no,” Rathe said. “I’ve two dead men on my books already.”

Vair dipped her head in acknowledgement. “And that, indeed, is nothing to mock.” She folded her long hands, resting her elbows on the arms of her chair. “Does untaxed foreign gold have magistical effect? My answer wasn’t entirely a joke, unfortunately. Traditionally, foreign gold, which by definition isn’t taxed by our Queen, has been used in certain magistical operations. It’s not nearly as powerful as aurichalcum, for which I’m sure we’re all grateful.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Rathe saw Eslingen’s mouth curl up into a rueful smile. They’d both seen and felt the effects of aurichalcum during the hunt for the children, when an orrery of the pure metal had set all the city’s clocks out of tune; felt it, too, when the orrery was destroyed, its power annilhilating its maker as though the man had never existed.

Vair said, “In recent years—since before the current Queen’s reign, in fact—most magists have believed that the binding implicit in the minting of a coin was enough to dilute its potency beyond practical use, and that the tax mark placed on duly received coin was magistically unnecessary. However, the tax revenues involved are sufficient that there seemed to be no real need to meddle with the system. But because the concern has been more fiscal than otherwise, there’s not been much interest in making sure that nothing slips through the cracks. A few untaxed, unstamped coins here and there simply didn’t seem to matter—they weren’t a danger, and the revenue their tax would bring in wouldn’t pay for the effort to find them.”

“But?” Rathe said, and she gave a thin smile.

“But. There has been a rise in certain magistical—let’s not call them crimes, they’re not precisely that. Activities, perhaps. Certain magistical activities that are best accomplished with aurichalcum or a near similitude, and some of us have begun to consider that untaxed gold may not be as harmless as we thought. And as Her Majesty has not yet named an heir….” Vair shrugged.

And that brought it back to politics again. Rathe swallowed a curse. Succession politics had begun the matter of the stolen children, though a madman had tried to turn it to his own ends. The succession was what had the court on edge and city’s Regents minding their purse strings and the Surintendant eyeing every common crime for some hint of political intent.

“Our simplest defense against this has been that it takes a considerable quantity of untaxed gold to have any serious effect,” Vair said. “The Queen’s tax collectors generally take care of that for us. But now you tell me that an entire chest of gold—foreign, untaxed gold—is up for sale in Astreiant. I can’t say I find this calming, Adjunct Point.”

“No more do I,” Rathe answered. “Still—politics isn’t my business, maseigne, but I don’t see what a southriver merchant who’s probably a fence can have to do with the succession.”

“Unless she’s acting as agent for someone,” Vair said.

“I’ve seen no sign of it,” Rathe said, “though I’ll look into it now, be sure of that.”

“And there is also Master Caiazzo to consider,” Vair said.

Eslingen stirred. “Who would not have sent me to cooperate with the points if he were playing politics, maseigne.”

“Most likely not.” Vair nodded. “But I can’t discount the possibility.”

“Everything that I’ve seen so far points to this being about the coin as coin,” Rathe said slowly. “But if it is political—where would you suggest we look?”

Vair hesitated. “We—the Fellows—have heard certain rumors within the University, that certain factions might have some hand in politics, some candidate to support. But we have no proof.”

Rathe looked at her. “I don’t suppose you could give me a better hint than that?”

She hesitated again, but shook her head with what looked like genuine regret. “I’m sorry, Adjunct Point. The situation is too delicate to mention names, even under these circumstances. But if you should find anything that points back to the University, or toward any magist in particular….”

Rathe sighed. “Be sure I’ll consult you,” he said, and she nodded.

“It would be very helpful.”

They made their way back toward town in thoughtful silence. The breeze had picked up, as it often did toward evening, blowing dust and strands of hay across the road, while in a field between two houses a pair of young bay horses chased leaves and each other across their paddock. Eslingen gave them an appraising glance, regretting again the rangy chestnut he’d sold at the beginning of the summer, but there was no possibility that he could afford to keep a horse in the city. Nor would Caiazzo stand for it. The merchant-venturer kept no stable of his own, and Eslingen had never known him to do more than borrow a horse from one of his caravaners. Still, those were pretty creatures, and he glanced back in spite of himself, until the turn of the road cut off his view.

“This doesn’t make things any better,” Rathe muttered, and Eslingen shook himself.

“More politics, you mean? No, it doesn’t.”

“And the University,” Rathe said. “I’m sure Istre will help, but—we’ve never had much luck asserting our authority over the Three Nations, never mind their masters.”