Point of Knives (3 page)

“A leash, anyway,” Rathe answered. In the rising light, he could see that the little-captain had a collar already, well-worn studded leather. “Or a rope. Anything like that.” He paused, sure he was going to regret this. “And then, yeah, you can come to the dead-house with me.”

In the four months he’d been in Astreiant, Eslingen had had no reason to visit the city’s dead-house, and couldn’t say even now that the idea particularly appealed to him. It was especially unappealing after an exceptionally early morning, trailing the alchemists’ cart across the fog-wreathed Hopes-Point bridge and across the city to the border the University shared with the manufactory district. The river fog was burning off now that the sun was fully up, the cobbles damp and slick underfoot, and he stifled a yawn. Rathe, walking a little ahead of him so that he could talk quietly to one of the apprentices, looked as though he got up before sunrise every day. Which he easily could, Eslingen thought. It was more startling than he liked to realize how little he really knew about the man. Except that he was good with dogs: the little-captain was following quietly now at the end of his leash, not happy, but recognizing authority.

Eslingen shook his head. He refused to regret his choices—if, indeed, you could call them choices at all. Leaguers like himself had been the first people suspected when children started disappearing from the city’s streets; Rathe had not only defended him, but found him a place when he’d lost his, and even if that had been as much to make Rathe’s own job easier, Eslingen had been, and still was, grateful. Except that Caiazzo had two fingers in nearly every questionable business dealing in his home neighborhood of Customs Point, and had made it clear that Eslingen would have to choose between his position and his growing affair with Nicolas Rathe. Caiazzo’s knife could not be in bed with the points, in any sense of the words. Probably he should have left Caiazzo’s service, but that would have meant leaving Astreaint altogether, and that—well, it would have put paid to any chance of seeing Rathe again. Better to drift a little longer, and see what turned up, or so he’d kept telling himself. This dead man, however, wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind.

The dead-house was a long low building with nothing to distinguish it from the other, similar buildings around it except the mage-lights in its windows and the air of quiet bustle already surrounding it. The apprentices brought the cart around toward a back door, but Rathe caught his sleeve when he would have followed.

“We can use the front door.”

“Generous of them,” Eslingen said, but followed obediently.

There was no smell at all, that was the thing he noticed most. The walls and floor were stone laid so tight Eslingen doubted you could slide a slip of paper into the gap, and everything was scoured spotless. A trio of apprentices were washing the far end of the hall, one sluicing the stones, the others driving the water ahead of them with heavy brooms, but all it did was make Eslingen think of the smells that weren’t there. He’d seen dead men in plenty, having been a soldier since he was fourteen, had done his share of burial detail, and this cleanliness felt unnatural.

Rathe clearly knew his way around the place, as of course a pointsman would. He stooped to tuck the little-captain under his arm, then steered them down a series of halls, finally knocking on a heavy iron-bound door. It opened at once, and a plump homely woman peered out, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Hello, Nico,” she said. “Are these yours?”

Rathe nodded. “Afraid so. And I’m going to need answers in a hurry. I have a feeling this one’s going to be ugly.”

“So I see,” she answered. “I was born in Point of Knives, I knew Grandad and his stories.”

“Thanks,” Rathe said, with what sounded like relief. “Cas, this is Philip Eslingen. He’s with me for now. Philip, this is Nianne Castera.”

“Magist,” Eslingen murmured, and she nodded briskly in answer.

“Who’d want to kill the old man?” Castera pulled the door open fully, beckoned them inside. Eslingen braced himself, and followed.

The bodies were already stripped, laid out on a pair of stone tables, and a curly-headed boy was just sorting their clothes into two neat piles. The air was more than naturally chill, and still utterly without scent. Eslingen took a step closer to the table that held Old Steen’s belongings, and Rathe gave him a sharp look.

“Something particular you’re looking for?”

Eslingen gave him his best smile. “Not really, no.” From the lift of Rathe’s eyebrow, he didn’t believe that for an instant, and Eslingen couldn’t really blame him. But in point of fact, the things he’d been expecting, the things he’d been sent to fetch, had clearly never been on the man. Caiazzo wouldn’t be happy that his man was dead, but he’d be even less happy at the possibility that he was being cheated.

“There’s not much,” the boy said, misunderstanding, “Just the usual.”

“Less than that, I’d say,” Rathe said, frowning. He glanced at Eslingen. “We wouldn’t be looking for letters or anything like that, would we?”

“Not on my account,” Eslingen answered, with perfect truth. “Or not that I know of, anyway.”

“Don’t tell me Hanselin doesn’t trust you,” Rathe said.

“He feels my provenance to be doubtful,” Eslingen said, and won a smile.

“I suppose he might, at that.”

“Your recommendation is a double-edged sword, Adjunct Point,” Eslingen said.

The little-captain chose that moment to give another mournful howl, and everyone jumped. “Sorry,” Rathe said, and gentled it to silence. He looked back at Eslingen. “Grandad was searched pretty thoroughly. What about Old Steen?”

“I don’t think so,” Eslingen said. “He wasn’t very cold when I found him, and I think I was first there.”

“I’d agree,” Castera said. “There’s his purse still on him, and a knife, and quite a nice pipe. And his keys.” She stood back, hands on hips, studying Old Steen’s body. The boy was sponging it clean, but the birdbolt still jutted between the ribs, the flesh torn and purpled around it. “And he didn’t die straightaway. The bolt took him turning, I’d say, and he ran—is that his dog? Maybe it distracted the killer. And then he kept moving, trying to escape, trying to get somewhere safe, until his heart gave out and he died.”

Eslingen shivered at the images she conjured. Alchemists were masters of transformation, they could read the changes in an object and track them to their source, that was why they were guardians of the dead. But it wasn’t a comfortable talent. He glanced at the other body, the old man—another Steen, Rathe had said, Old Steen’s father. The boy had done his best to make him presentable, but the stab wound below the breast was still ugly. And not, Eslingen thought, with sharpening attention, what he would have expected. Oh, it was effective enough, but it wasn’t expert, and most of the knives and bravos who meddled in Caiazzo’s business were nothing but expert.

“You noticed that,” Rathe said in his ear, and Eslingen lifted an eyebrow.

“Noticed what?”

“Whoever stabbed him was no professional,” Rathe said. “Just like whoever shot Old Steen didn’t make it count. Does that mean anything to you?”

“There’s only so much I can tell you, Nico,” Eslingen said. He chose his words with care. “Caiazzo sent me to meet Old Steen, by way of business, and that’s all I can say about that. But he wasn’t expecting trouble, nor was I, and if there were going to be trouble in this business, I wouldn’t expect to find the bodies at all.”

Rathe made a face, but nodded, the little-captain squirming again under his arm. “What about Grandad?” he asked, and Castera looked up from contemplating the body.

“He fought, though I’m sure you saw that yourself. I’d say he had a knife of his own, from the marks on his hands, but he was an old man, for all his talk. It wouldn’t take too much strength to beat past his guard.” Her mouth tightened for a moment. “He died about the same time his son was shot, and, being that they’re father and son and the bodies found not too far apart, I’d be inclined to say they were attacked in the same place.”

“But there’s nothing alchemical to say that,” Rathe said, and Castera shook her head.

“Sadly, no. Two different weapons, otherwise I could say yea or nay. And different enough that I can’t even say if it’s a similar hand. At least not by alchemy.”

Rathe nodded. “Hold them for me, will you? And do a full autopsy?”

“Rathe, the cause of death is entirely clear,” Castera said.

“Humor me?” he asked, and after a moment she shrugged and nodded.

“All right. But I doubt I’ll find more than I’ve already told you.”

“There’s something not right here,” Rathe answered. “With your permission, Cas, I’ll take their belongings back to Point of Hopes, and put out a cry for the next-of-kin.”

“D’you have the list?” she said, to the boy, and he nodded. “Right, then. Sign for them, Rathe, and they’re all yours. And—good luck. Grandad was a worthless old sot, but he didn’t deserve this.”

Rathe checked the list, and scribbled his name and title at the bottom, then tucked the bundle into the pocket opposite the little-captain. The dog struggled as they left, yelping and whining, but once they were out in the street, it settled to a morose silence. Eslingen adjusted his hat, shading his eyes from the rising sun.

“I’m for Customs Point,” he said, and Rathe shook his head.

“Sorry, Philip. You’ll need to give us your story.”

“I’ve given it to you,” Eslingen protested. “Have a heart, Nico, I’ve been up most of the night.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Rathe answered, and Eslingen followed.

The sun was fully up by the time they reached the station square at Point of Hopes, the streets waking to the routines of the day. A flock of gargoyles scolded from the midden beside a bakery, and a sleepy-looking apprentice was washing the steps of the inn at the corner. There was a a bustle of activity in the station’s main room, the night-watch handing over to the day, and Eslingen checked just inside the doorway, not wanting to be in the way. Rathe ignored it, and hung cap and jerkin on the waiting hooks. The little-captain hovered at his ankles, wary but not yet growling.

“Is the chief in yet?” he asked, to no one in particular, and a blonde woman straightened from the duty point’s table, where she’d been studying a ledger.

“Not yet, Adjunct Point. She’s on her way.”

“Good.” Rathe worked his shoulders, then picked up the dog, settling it into the crook of his arm. “There’s been two murders on the edge of Point of Knives, probably related—it’s Grandad Steen and his son.”

The blonde frowned. “Why would anyone kill Grandad, for Sophia’s sake?”

Rathe looked at Eslingen. “I intend to find out. And have one of the runners make us some tea.”

“Right, Adjunct Point.” The blonde reached for a pen and a scrap of paper, began scribbling.

Breakfast would be nice, too, Eslingen thought, but he wasn’t sure enough of Rathe’s mood to say it aloud.

The blonde finished her note, handed it to one of the waiting runners, and sent another one to the station’s well to fill Rathe’s kettle. “I heard that Young Steen’s ship came in yesterday,” she said. “Should we send for him, too?”

“Now, that’s interesting,” Rathe said. “Yeah, let him know. I imagine he’s the one to claim the bodies, but if not, he’ll know who is.” He looked over his shoulder. “In the meantime, Eslingen—you and I need to have a talk.”

“I’m at your disposal, Adjunct Point,” Eslingen murmured, and followed him up the stairs.

He still hadn’t figured out exactly what he was going to tell Rathe, and Rathe didn’t give him any time to consider, either, just pointed to the spare chair and settled himself behind his table. He set the little-captain on the table-top, and it padded back and forth across the scattered papers before settling itself with an almost human sigh.

“Right,” Rathe said. “What exactly were you doing at the Bay Tree, Philip?”

“A job for Caiazzo,” Eslingen answered.

“I’d got that far,” Rathe said, with a crooked grin. “Could you be a bit more specific?”

“Old Steen was supposed to have a packet for Caiazzo,” Eslingen said. “I was supposed to collect it, the thought being that sending me was more discreet than having Old Steen come to the house, or for Caiazzo to go to him. Only he didn’t arrive as arranged, and when I finally gave up waiting, I practically tripped over his body.”

“Not at the end of a blind alley, you didn’t,” Rathe said.

“Metaphorically,” Eslingen said. “I told you, I looked around a bit to see if I could find out what had gone wrong.” He shook his head as a runner appeared with the pot of tea. “I really didn’t expect to find him dead. It wasn’t that sort of job at all.”

“What sort of job was it?” Rather asked, and jammed a hand into his hair. “No, wait, don’t answer that! Unless—is it something I need to know?”

“Not in the least,” Eslingen answered promptly, and Rathe grinned.

“I’ll let that pass for now. Pour us some tea, will you?”

Eslingen found the woven-wicker strainer and obliged, filling a pair of cheap pottery cups. He handed one to Rathe and took the other for himself, wrapping his fingers around the heating surface. “Seriously, Nico, I wasn’t expecting any trouble. Caiazzo wasn’t expecting trouble. I’d have come better armed if he had been.”